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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24478747">Frisky Business</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe'>WaterMe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Frisky Beans Extended Universe [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hawkeye (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Mostly) Safe Sex, ASL usage, Age Difference, Animal Transformation, Asgardian Magic as an Excuse for Everything, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint doesn’t know too much about cats, Deaf Clint Barton, Enemies to Pets to Lovers, Fluff, Human Disaster Clint Barton, Kitten Peter Parker, Light Angst, Light Whump, Lip reading, Literally lol, Lucky POV, M/M, Made For Each Other, Mild Breathplay, Misunderstandings, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter Parker is a Mess, Peter is college age, Power Bottom Peter Parker, SO MUCH FLUFF, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Slow Purrn, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, apparently Peter is a slut, no cats were harmed in the writing of this smut, sex in the last chapter only, sorry - I just can’t write him any other way, unsafe life choices, yes really - I went there</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:06:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>32,664</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24478747</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Peter Parker finds himself inexplicably turned into a kitten, he doesn't think his day can get any worse. That is, until he finds himself tucked into the pocket of Earth’s Mightiest Jerkface, Clint Barton. </p><p>or: The Adventures of Spider-Cat and the Magnificent Hawkguy</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clint Barton/Peter Parker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Frisky Beans Extended Universe [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924537</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>201</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>343</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Hissy Fits</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I was going to work on the sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610983/chapters/54038002">"There is [No] Sex in the Champagne Room"</a><br/>Then I decided to take a break to write a quick one-shot with kitten Peter.<br/>Then I started reading Fraction and Aja's <em>Hawkeye,</em> and it was all over from there.<br/>Anyway, here we are.<br/>I hope that you enjoy and it brings a little whimsy to your day &lt;3</p><p>A world of thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vashoth">Vashoth</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnGoose/pseuds/AnGoose">AnGoose</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/">Y_ellow,</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwenpools_Aesthetic/pseuds/Gwenpools_Aesthetic">Gwenpools_Aesthetic</a> for being exceptional betas and dangerously imaginative enablers.<br/><a href="https://waterme-stories.tumblr.com/">You can find me on Tumblr,</a> if you want!<br/><span class="small"></span><br/><em>All graphics are my design, using CC0 stock from <a href="https://pixabay.com/">Pixabay</a> and promotional celebrity + movie images.</em><br/></p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which everybody gets pet the wrong way.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Captain America had a smear of soot brushed artfully over one perfect cheekbone. His face held the look of a man who longed for a shower, a doctor-prescribed asthma cigarette, and a good cry. Preferably all at the same time. </p><p>The mood in the debrief room was stormy, to say the least. Next to Cap, Iron Man was slumping more than his armor should have allowed, pressing an ice pack against a monster of a shiner. The stiff, brittle way he held his left wrist spoke to a fracture — or, at best, a nasty sprain. Presumably, the suit was monitoring and stabilizing; if he wasn’t going to acknowledge it, neither was anyone else. He radiated ‘fed-up parent energy,’ clearly unwilling to leave the occupants of the room alone for even a single second. </p><p>Even Black Widow’s fur was ruffled by the thick fog of self-righteous testosterone, though the tense set of her shoulders was the only indication of her discomfort — for those who knew where to look, anyway. Banner had already been sent off to bed which (in retrospect) had been an excellent call, because he would have gone green all over again. The only person in an actively good mood was Thor, but everyone knew he was basically a golden retriever. He beamed merrily at the stand-off happening on opposite sides of the long table.</p><p>“I saved people, okay? I made a judgment call and I stand by it. Those people would be dead if it weren’t for me.” </p><p>Spider-Man’s suit was torn and he wavered where he stood, one hand pressed unconsciously to his side. His voice cracked with fatigue and frustration as he defended his territory. It was a far shift from the first half of the meeting, which he’d spent glaring at his cracked phone screen like a sullen teen.</p><p>Facing off against him was Hawkeye. He was as rough as the rest of them; a butterfly bandage held together a nasty cut on his cheek, and a stray blast had come a little too close for comfort if the soot speckling his face was anything to go by. At some point post-mission he’d thrown on an oversized hoodie, and his hands were tucked up into the sleeves. But he stood tall, back straight and arms crossed. He eyed Spider-Man with a flinty gaze. <em> “Iron Man </em> had to come in and save those people — and you. He could have gotten really hurt fixing your dumb mistake.”</p><p>“I can take care of myself! He didn’t have to break the line to save me!”</p><p>“Sure didn’t look like that from the birdseye view.”</p><p>“I would have figured it out!”</p><p>“Yeah, but you <em> didn’t,</em>” Hawkeye snapped. “And you put Tony’s life at risk.”</p><p>“Hey now!” Stark protested, sitting upright with a wince. “I can speak for myself. Yeah, maybe he made a mistake, but it was for the right reason.” He turned to Spider-Man. “And it could have worked. We can talk about what went sideways, figure out how to incorporate it into the plan next time.”</p><p>Spider-Man’s laugh dripped with bitter sarcasm. “The <em> plan? </em>The plan never seems to accounts for collateral damage. With all due respect to your precious strategies, these aren’t ‘losses and gains.’ They’re real people.”</p><p>“We know that, Spider-Man.” Cap spoke carefully. “All we can do is our best. Sometimes there are no easy answers. That’s why we work as a <em> team”</em> — he stressed the word, and Spider-Man muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a mocking quote from a Captain America PSA — “to find ways to protect the most people. <em> Together. </em>In a planned and informed way.”</p><p>“Don’t sugar coat it, Cap,” Hawkeye said. “He should have called for back-up.”</p><p>Spider-Man whipped around. “Back-up? <em> Back-up? </em>That building was collapsing! No one was gonna get there fast enough!”</p><p>“Oh, and the ‘Amazing Spider-Man’ was the only one who could save 'em? By diving face-first into a ton of brick?” Hawkeye slurred a bit, fatigue turning his words into an angry drawl.</p><p>Cap pinched the bridge of his nose. “What do you propose we do, Clint?”</p><p>Hawkeye’s shoulder dipped a little as he took a breath, and then he drew himself up to full height. Spider-Man tipped his chin up as if to bring himself on level with the taller man. “He needs to be benched until he’s had training — ”</p><p>“What?” yelped Spider-Man, “I’m probably the strongest person <em> here — </em>”</p><p>Hawkeye cut him off. “Until he’s had <em> training, </em> until he learns how to use his damn powers — and how not to use them. And,” he addressed Spider-Man directly, “we need a better way to contact you than that damn burner phone that you don’t pick up half the time.” His bruised, bloody fingers peeked out from his sleeve as he gestured mockingly at the scuffed phone face down on the table. “We need accountability. If you’re gonna be on this team, you need to be <em> on this team.</em>”</p><p>Spider-Man’s voice was cold as he glared around the room. “My identity stays secret. You <em> all </em>knew that when you asked me to ‘be on this team.’ ”</p><p>“Yeah?” Hawkeye slammed a fist to the table. Fresh blood decorated his chewed-up knuckles, but he didn’t so much as wince. “So what happens when you get killed pulling the kind of shit you pulled today? Who we even gonna notify?”</p><p>“Clint.” Black Widow’s voice cracked like a whip across the tense room. They locked eyes for a long, silent moment. Then, Hawkeye’s shoulders slumped. He looked exhausted suddenly, the lines around his eyes more prominent.</p><p>“Whatever,” he muttered. “Do what you want.” He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, faltering a step before he got his foot under himself.</p><p>The room was silent. Spider-Man radiated misery, shoulders around his ears. </p><p>Thor spoke up, as cheerful here as he was in Bruce’s morning yoga sessions (which was to say, overly). “Well I, for one, think the Spider did wonderfully. Anything involving my ne’er-do-well brother requires excessive bravery and creativity. Twas a bold play!” Spider-Man loosened just a hair as he looked to the god hopefully. “Keep up the good work, warrior child!”</p><p>Spider-Man deflated, hand creeping back to his ribs. His voice was soft. “Uh, thanks, Thor. Look, I’m gonna go. Call me next time you need your asses saved or whatever.” He slunk out of the room, boots as silent as little cat feet.</p><p>Stark and Cap exchanged a long glance before Stark spoke up. “I’ll go talk to him. See if I can get him in for some training, maybe engage him with some strategy sessions. He’s a smart kid. He’s just used to working alone.”</p><p>Cap nodded, pushing his fingers through his hair. “Thanks, Tony. I think we’re done here, anyway.” He never thought he’d see the day when he’d think wistfully of the carefree days of the London Blitz.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>“Hey, there, World Wide Web.”</p><p>Tony found Spider-Man hunched on the wall in the back corner of his lab. <em> On </em>the wall. Feet and ass firmly planted on vertical metal, knees drawn up to his chin, arms wrapped tight around his shins in an unsettling display of physics-defying misery. The kid lifted the fingers of one hand in a sad little wave, not bothering to look up.</p><p>“How long do I have before I’m kicked out of the Avengers’ group chat?”</p><p>“Five, maybe ten minutes,” said Tony. Spidey hunched deeper. “...but they’re kicking Clint out, too. You’re both in the doghouse right now.” His voice gentled. “You’re both valuable assets to the team. You’re both people that I — that <em> we </em>respect. But we need both of you to work harder to get along.” </p><p>Spidey raised his head. Tony tipped his own head until his ear almost touched his shoulder, trying to stay on level. “What did he want me to do? Let those people die? If I see a situation pointed south, I can’t ignore it.”</p><p>God, what a little firecracker. “I know, kid. You and Cap got that in common. And you and me. And, believe it or not, you and Hawkeye. He’s just worried.”</p><p>“Yeah? I could do with a little less worrying if that’s what it looks like. If he worries about me any harder I’ll get another black eye. Maybe if he tries the true power of friendship, I’ll finally be cured of all this great power, great responsibility, and great knack for getting stuck on the glass of revolving doors.” Spidey muttering darkly to his own kneecaps. He shifted and hissed, hand drifting down to press against his side.</p><p>Tony leaned against a table, fiddling with a screwdriver and intentionally avoiding eye contact. “You should go down to Medical before you leave, get those ribs checked out.”</p><p>“My ribs are fine,” snapped Spidey, hand darting back around his knees.</p><p>“Okay,” Tony said, raising his hands in supplication. He winced as the bones in his forearm shifted just a teeny bit more than they should have. He didn’t have a lot of room to talk about shitty self-care. “You know yourself best. Look, do you want to stick around? Jam in the lab? If you have a spare mask, I have a few thoughts on chuffing up those amazing lenses of yours.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Spidey said, finally detangling himself from his despondent little ball and sliding down the wall to put his feet on terra firma like a normal human being. Tony sighed in relief when he touched down, feeling a little dizzy as he watched the laws of gravity slide around the kid. “Yeah, I’d like that. Uh… I have a bunch of stuff to catch up on, though. Maybe… maybe Saturday?”</p><p>“Saturday!” said Tony. “Perfect!” And then, “Um. What day is today?”</p><p>Spidey just stared at him, wide-eyed. Tony stared back. Finally, he cleared his throat.</p><p>“Uh, J?”</p><p>The British voice that surrounded them was so blandly non-judgemental that it circled all the way back to condescending. “Today is Thursday, sir. 4:29pm.”</p><p>“Great, thanks! So, day after tomorrow? Ten… no… noon, give me till noon or I will <em> not </em> be awake. <em> Capisce</em><em>?”</em></p><p>Spidey gave a head-tilt that Tony hoped was positive. <em>“</em><em>Capace</em>.”</p><p>“Et tu, Charlotte. Try not to start any more fights before Saturday. My own peace can be bought with bagels, a copy of the chip controlling those lenses, and abject flattery of my unending genius.” Tony grinned at Spidey, who was shooting him a shaky thumbs up as he backed out of the lab. “Seriously, though, Medical. Get checked for magic, at least. Any of this weird Asgardian shit, we can’t be too careful. And Spider-Man…”</p><p>The other hero ducked his head back around the corner, tentative.</p><p>“Shit happens. We’ve all been there.” Tony didn’t feel like his words were enough to convey what he wanted to say. He tried for meaningful eye-to-lens contact, and hoped he was coming across as genuine.</p><p>“Thanks, Tony.”</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Spider-Man slumped over the balcony off the main common area and considered his options. Even on a gloomy day, the view from the Avengers floor always made his problems seem as tiny as the city below, as if none of it could follow him up there within web’s reach of the clouds. Like everything that troubled him had a very convenient fear of heights. </p><p>Except for today, of course. Today, they’d followed him right up the elevator, and JARVIS hadn’t even asked to see their badge.</p><p>He pressed his fingers callously into his ribs. Bruised, he thought, but not cracked. They’d heal. And his spider sense, which always itched in the presence of magic users, wasn’t giving him a single tingle. A marked improvement from the first time he’d met Doctor Strange: he’d walked into the room and hit the ceiling from bad vibes. Still couldn’t go near the Sanctum Sanctorum without taking a Benedryl first. </p><p>He was fine. Spider-Man didn't need training and Spider-Man didn't need Medical. He just needed everyone needed to stop treating him like a dumb <em>kid.</em></p><p>Tony's kind face flashed in his mind, and guilt tugged somewhere under his definitely-not-broken ribs. Maybe he should stick around and talk to Thor, at the very least. Even though Loki hadn’t done a whammy on him, it couldn’t hurt to do some team building with a member of the team who actually liked him. Plus that would serve as evidence that he was trying — perfect to shove in Hawkeye’s stupid face. </p><p>The wind changed direction, whipping around the building and carrying voices from the roof. His shoulders tensed at the familiar cadences.</p><p>“ — m just saying, you need to stop being so hard on him.”</p><p>“He’s gonna ge — ”</p><p>
  <em> thwip </em>
</p><p>The balcony was empty, and Spider-Man was gone.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>So. This wasn't a great look.</p><p>Clint perched on the rooftop railing, one leg slung casually over the edge, glaring at the city below. He was pissed at Cap and Stark, pissed at that kid, pissed at himself. Just… pissed. If he had to lose his cool, did he have to do it in front of the entire fucking team? <em> Fuck, </em> you’d think one of these years he’d grow out of being such a <em> goddamn fuck-up. </em></p><p>He squeezed his fist around the cool metal, wincing as the movement jarred his bruised knuckles and reopened scabs which had just barely started to re-clot after that clusterfuck of a meeting. Fuck it. He was going home for a hot date with an ice pack, a beer, and his dog. </p><p>Because today couldn’t cut him a damn break, that was the moment Natasha Romanoff appeared out of fuckin’ nowhere behind him. He considered taking the out and feigning a flinch of surprise so he could fall over the railing to certain death. Or, slightly less dramatic, but equally as satisfying, he could just chuck his hearing aids. Probably ding a Wall Street schmuck right in the ear from up here.</p><p>Neither of those were huge steps in the Stop Being A Goddamn Fuck-Up direction. He sighed heavily. “Hey, Nat.”</p><p>“Hey, grumpy. You off your bullshit yet?”</p><p>He pressed his lips tight. “Nope.”</p><p>Nat sighed. “Clint, come on. You were being an asshole.”</p><p>“Better to be an asshole than a murderer!” he burst out, swinging his legs around to face her. “Because that’s what it is if we let our kid brother tag along. It's murder through negligence. We let him think he’s a ‘real Avenger,’ make him believe he can keep up with the big kids,” his mocking tone turned dark, “and it’s not a matter of <em>if </em>he’s gonna get hurt on the job. It’s <em> when.</em>”</p><p>“He <em>is </em>a real Avenger,” Nat’s voice was cold, “and you need to treat him like one. I’m not saying he’s perfect. Believe me… <em> nobody </em>thinks that. But if you don’t calm the hell down and treat him like a teammate instead of a child, you’re the one who’ll be benched.”</p><p>She leaned casually on the railing, one hand dropping ever-so-accidentally across his bruised knuckles. Her face was turned resolutely towards the city, not a glance at him. A peace offering.</p><p>“I’m just saying, you need to stop being so hard on him.”</p><p>“He’s gonna get himself killed,” Clint growled. “And when he does, that’s on us.” </p><p>Nat tilted her head, concentrating. “Did you just hear something?”</p><p>“Course I fucking didn’t,” Clint grumbled. “Thanks, Nat, good talk. Real productive.” He hopped down, wincing as his knee popped, and stalked towards the elevator. He knew that even if he looked back, Nat would never in a million years let an ounce of hurt show on her face. A sick coil of guilt wormed its way into his stomach.</p><p>That was fine. It had plenty of buddies there already.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Peter wasn’t saying he wished he’d stopped by Medical before flinging himself into the city below, but as he swung, favoring his right side… yeah, okay, he was wishing he’d stopped by Medical. Maybe he should drop down to the streets, take the subway the rest of the way. It was always funny to see people’s reactions to a beat-up Spider-Man taking a nap on a subway bench.</p><p>On second thought, he wasn’t really in the mood to be a Zoo-York exhibit today.</p><p>His brain was still buzzing with Hawkeye’s smug voice. He knew exactly where that sentence had been headed.</p><p>
  <em> “He’s gonna get someone killed.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “He’s gonna screw everything up.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “He’s gonna get kicked off the Avengers and drop out of college and have to go live in a cardboard box in Jersey, sitting on the corner selling decorative sculptures lovingly hand-crafted from tinfoil to eke out a meagre living.”  </em>
</p><p>Okay, maybe that last one got away from him.</p><p><em> Whatever.</em> He didn’t need to eavesdrop on Hawkeye to know exactly what the other super thought of him. Earth’s Most Condescending Hero had been so kind as to explain exactly why Spider-Man was a fuck up, at length, in front of the entire team. He didn’t have the right! It wasn’t like he was even in the thick of the action. Always skulking up on perches hiding behind his perfect shades, perfect shoulders flexing as he fired arrow after arrow perfectly on target. A single, perfect bead of sweat rolling off that perfect jawline and down an absolutely biteable neck… </p><p>Whoa.</p><p>What the fuck, Parker.</p><p>He needed to get <em> laid. </em></p><p>Peter was only human, okay? He could think that Hawkeye was a complete and utter douche-nozzle while still recognizing that, objectively, Hawkeye had qualities that some humans might find attractive in other humans. Qualities like ‘excessive height,’ and ‘obnoxious blondness,’ and ‘grotesquely overdeveloped biceps,’ and ‘almost certainly heterosexual.’ Qualities that humans like Peter (as an example) often found attractive in humans who were very much <em> not </em>Hawkeye.</p><p>He needed to get laid, <em> and </em>he needed to develop better taste in men.</p><p>Regardless, Hawkeye didn’t have the right to call him out like that in debrief. Cap was the leader of the team, and while getting a talking to from Captain America felt worse than kicking a bald eagle in the face, at least he was fair and rational. Hawkeye just tore him down, every fucking time. It was clear that he absolutely <em> hated </em> Spider-Man. Peter got enough of that working for Jameson, thank you very much. </p><p>Peter winced at the reminder. Speaking of regrets, he wished he hadn’t snuck a peek at his forwarded texts at the beginning of that debrief. The pings that had rolled in had put him in a funk and, well…  There might be the slightest possibility that he hadn’t been his best self by the time the agenda got around to his rescue play.</p><p>Turned out, when you missed three shifts in two weeks, you lost your shitty, minimum wage stocking job. Which, fine, fuck ‘em. But that meant that, until he could scrounge up another gig, his sole source of income was contract work with the <em> Bugle. </em>Even when it paid decently, no amount of money was worth giving J. Jonah Jameson more opportunities to shit on Spider-Man. And let’s be honest — it never paid decently.</p><p>The view from the moral high ground was great, but the grocery money? Not so good. So he was going to have to swing by his tiny, cold apartment to grab his good camera, then stay out for another hour or two to grab some halfway decent shots to accompany this weekend's scathing headlines about his dastardly alter ego. He hoped Jameson would go for a ‘walking wounded’ kinda vibe, because that was the only vibe he had available right now. His heroic pose machine was broken, and the turn-around for repairs was a few hours of sleep and half a pizza, at minimum.</p><p>And then he had to finish that paper that was due by midnight tonight (that he’d planned on surreptitiously typing on his phone while hiding in the back at the stocking job). And email his professor to figure out if there was any way he could make up today’s missed lab, because the class was only offered spring quarter and if he flunked it he’d be pushing his whole degree out by a year. Ugh, and that thing with the Russians — he knew they had something big planned for Saturday, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out where. </p><p>He also needed to apologize to MJ, again, because it turned out that when you no-showed for your third lunch date in two weeks, you didn’t get fired from your friendship, but you did get put on a strict performance improvement plan (paperwork included). Yeah. Getting punched in the balls by Michelle via text followed by Hawkeye’s verbal knee to the nose had been just awesome, thanks for asking.</p><p>Peter briefly wondered if his extensive and excruciating to-do list gave him a ‘get out of patrol free’ card. Just one night off… He’d given Spider-Man so much of his day. He’d saved a lot of people, and he’d put his ass on the line with the Avengers to do it. One night off to heal and rest and catch up wasn’t a huge ask, was it?</p><p>His thoughts were cut off by the squeal of a siren to his left, accompanied by the sharp zing of his spider-sense. His gut twisted with shame as he pivoted around the corner to cut through an alley, heading in the direction of the altercation. Had he really just been considering taking a night off? Did the people who would get hurt tonight really care about his dumb paper, or his social life?</p><p>His guilty queasiness grew and he almost missed his next throw, web lines briefly doubling and tripling in his vision before undulating back down to a single image. Whoa. He blinked fuzzily. Maybe he should… maybe he should touch down, just for a second… </p><p>He stumbled across the asphalt, tripping over his own feet. The rough brick of the alley seemed to be closing in and — safe, he needed somewhere safe, couldn’t pass out in the open, and dumpster! Yay! Wait… No, dumpster <em> bad! </em> But behind the dumpster there was just enough space for him to squeeze, and someone had abandoned a nice, friendly cardboard box back there, too. Hello, new best friend.</p><p>“If he fits, he sits,” he giggled to himself, more than a little hysterical, and collapsed into a ball onto the squashed cardboard just as everything went black for good.</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Aw, Kitten, No</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which things get hairy for our adorable hero.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I had a plan to keep this snappy, both to really embody that kitten-brain and as a personal writing exercise. But then the world went to hell and it turned out that writing long, self-indulgent descriptions of my dream apartment was the self-care I needed in these trying times. I call this chapter 'Clint has a super-cool apartment and Peter can't see it very well (4258 words)'. I hope the execution is better than the name.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Peter woke up feeling very strange indeed.</p><p>Something was very, <em> very, </em>wrong.</p><p>He didn’t spend too much time trying to figure out what it was, because whoever had done this very bad, very wrong thing to him had also smothered him in a tarp, and he just wanted <em> out. </em> He scrambled and fought until he finally found a tear and stuck his face through it and — </p><p><em> no, wrong, stuck, </em> said Spidey Sense, <em> you won’t fit </em></p><p>Sorry, Spidey Sense, ‘Parker Anxiety’ was gonna win this one. Pushing past the gut-wrench of claustrophobia, he burst out of the tarp at speed and took off running, glancing over and hey, wow, vertigo, the wall over there was <em> sideways </em> and — </p><p>Oh, wait, no.</p><p>He was just running up a wall. Calm down, Parker. This was normal. Comfortable, even. His wheelhouse. He scrambled the rest of the way up and the world righted itself, but something was still off. </p><p>Whoa. Everything was — </p><p>
  <em> Whoa. </em>
</p><p>Peter had never engaged in the, uh, recreational pursuits of his peers. Okay, fine. Peter had never <em> successfully </em> engaged in the recreational pursuits of his peers. Spider-metabolism: what a drag, right? But either he’d been drugged, or his concussions were suddenly going to be a lot more fun at parties. His vision blurred at the edges and the brick wall jumped in and out of focus. Colors wavered between muted and vivid as his gaze skipped around, and why was everything so <em> big? </em> He wasn’t great at decisions, but he was pretty sure he would have at least <em> remembered </em> being dumb enough to take a sip out of a tiny bottle labeled <em> ‘Drink Me.’ </em></p><p>Peter had to hand it to Hollywood — this was <em> everything </em> the movies had promised him acid would be. </p><p>He tried to get his bearings through the blur of his shiny new visual enhancements, shifting a bit on the wide metal ledge under his feet. Wait. No, that didn’t seem right. He was… on all fours. The cool, metal ledge under his hands? No, still not quite right...</p><p>Oh <em> no. </em></p><p>The ledge under his paws<em>. </em></p><p>His brown, stripy, furry <em> paws. </em></p><p>When he came down from this, he was going to owe Mrs. Brown from 9th grade health class a <em> huge </em> apology.</p><p>Peter detached in shock, tipping sideways into what was (he was now realizing with horror) a gigantic dumpster. He hit the garbage hard, and whoever had slipped him a mickey hadn’t had the decency to heal his bruised ribs, so, you know, injury to insult. He popped onto his feet and quivered. He was surrounded by gargantuan apple cores, by newspapers with more area than his apartment floorplan, boxes the size of buildings — the trash heap of Titans. Color faded to the edges of the world, coming to aggressive, sharp points at the center. Painfully bright and reactive, even as they faded back to shadows easy as anything when his gaze slipped past. </p><p><em> What? </em>he yelped.</p><p>“mew!” said his mouth.</p><p><em> No, what the actual </em> fuck<em>?! </em> </p><p>“mew, mew, <em> prrrrt?! </em>”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh, god.</p><p>Please let this be a dream. He had to… find the Avengers, call Thor, do <em> something. </em>How long had he been out? Was his phone still with the suit? Could he operate a fingerprint scanner with paws? Shit, did he remember his passcode? He could feel his tail poof.</p><p>His super-productive panic spiral was rudely interrupted by a sound at the mouth of the alley. His mouth snapped shut. Had he — had he been <em> warbling </em> this entire time? God <em> damnit </em> Parker, this is why they don’t let you do undercover.</p><p>“Uh, hello?” said a voice. “Here, kitty kitty…”</p><p>Peter dove beneath an old coffee filter, ignoring the coffee grounds that pelted him. Any other day, he would have listed ‘showering in coffee’ as pretty high on the bucket list. Guess it just goes to show, some dreams should stay dreams.</p><p>Footsteps neared the dumpster. Ugh, did they think they were some kinda hero or something? Just be a normal New Yorker and keep walking. Peter was chirping in distress again, <em> double-dammit, </em>how could someone with an affinity for spiders be this bad at stealth? He oughta change his brand to Bull-In-A-China-Shop-Man.</p><p>He flinched, flattening his body as a giant hand lifted the coffee filter. Peter distantly noticed bandages around the knuckles, scrapes and friction burns, and hoo boy, those hands thought they’d been having a bad day already, it was about to get a whole lot worse, mister catnapper, sir.</p><p>Sharp claws flashed. The giant swore, cursing. Peter purred the triumphant purr of the righteous. That’s <em> right. </em> Mess with the Spider-Cat and you get messed <em> up. </em> T’challa’s whole 'claws' shtick was starting to make sense.</p><p>The hand was coming back for more. Just don’t know when to quit, do ya? </p><p>Wait, nope, nope, <em> nope. </em></p><p>Peter had been <em> scruffed. </em> He twisted and yowled as he was lifted into the air.</p><p>This was, with one hundred percent certainty, the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to Peter Parker in his entire life. There was no possible way this could get any worse.</p><p>He opened his eyes, squinting through a halo of washed-out brick until his attacker came into focus.</p><p>He was looking into the face of Clint <em> Fucking </em>Barton.</p><p>Well.</p><p>Peter should have known better. It could <em> always </em> get worse.</p><p>And he wasn’t going <em> anywhere </em> with Hawkeye.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Peter was going somewhere with Hawkeye.</p><p>He was going somewhere, and he was going there quite rapidly if the man’s stupidly long legs had anything to say about it. He wasn’t quite sure how he had ended up tucked neatly into Jerkeye’s pocket, but he hoped he’d drawn a little more blood on his way in. Spider-Man wasn’t a quitter, even in cat form.</p><p>At least it was warmer in here than it had been in that dumpster. Even if he had to share that pocket with a handful of spare change and, unexpectedly, a movie stub from <em> How to Train Your Dragon. </em> Huh. He wouldn’t have pegged Hawkeye as the type to get sentimental, especially not over a decade-old kids movie about a tiny punk underdog with something to prove.  </p><p>He hated to admit it, but of all six million people in New York City who could have pulled him out of that dumpster, Hawkeye wasn’t the worst. Peter would just chill out until they got wherever Hawkeye was taking them (although if it was the vee-ee-tee, Peter <em> would </em> maim the man using only a rectal thermometer). Then he would find a way — <em>any </em> way — to communicate who he was. Get back to the tower, talk <em> (mew) </em> at Thor, and they could get him sorted. This could all be just a tiny, humiliating footnote <em> (pawnote) </em> in the overall <em> cat</em>astrophe that was Peter’s life.</p><p>He took another thoughtful bite. He had a plan, he had a warm pocket, he had a snack… wait. When had he gotten a snack?</p><p>He had… a dog treat. He had been gnawing on a bone shaped dog treat.</p><p>It… wasn’t terrible.</p><p>He took another bite. This was just his life now.</p><p>Peter was separated from his thoughts (and, tragically, from his Pupperoni) as Hawkeye sat down, sending him tail-over-teakettle amid a rain of Canadian pennies and bodega receipts. <em> “Union Square Station,” </em> said a robotic voice, and, wait, Hawkeye takes the <em> subway? </em> </p><p>He should probably try to get the point across <em> before </em>they left Manhattan, he thought drowsily. What’s a good way to say, ‘Hey, it’s me, your teammate, Friendly Neighborhood Frenemy, and also a literal cat’? </p><p>Before he could ponder it too deeply, the warmth of the pocket and the vibrations of the train overtook him. With a tiny, not-at-all-adorable yawn, Peter Parker was asleep.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Peter twitched happily as he dreamed. It was a lovely thing about a garden, and a sunbeam, and full student-loan forgiveness. Sadly, such contentment never lasts. He was rudely woken by a <em> savage attack </em> as broad fingers wrapped around him with <em> clear intent </em>to squeeze the life out of him.</p><p>Fuck <em> that </em>nonsense.</p><p>The next few moments were a blur of claws, fur, and dog cookie crumbs as he was yanked out of his cozy jacket-pocket haven and tossed none-to-lightly onto the drab, blueish-gray expanse of a hostile, frigid wasteland.</p><p>Well… a couch.</p><p>It was just a couch, no need to be dramatic.</p><p>But it was still way too big, which meant — </p><p>He was still a kitten.</p><p>He mewed piteously. </p><p>“I don’t feel sorry for you.”</p><p>Peter looked up. Ugh, right. <em> Hawkeye. </em>Of all the trash joints in all the towns in the world, Clint Barton had to walk into his. The man was glaring at him, sucking blood off his knuckles.</p><p><em> Fuuuuuu — </em>“mew!” — <em>uuck. </em></p><p>“Aw, kitten, no, c’mere,” sighed Hawkeye, reaching for him. “Let me look at your goopy eye, at least.”</p><p>He wouldn’t <em> have </em> a black eye if <em> someone </em> had stopped flexing his dumb arms for long enough to shoot the off-brand Cheshire Cat off of Peter this afternoon (that thing had had a <em> mean </em> left hook for a minion). Peter hissed and swiped. Hawkeye jumped back. </p><p>“Fine,” he swore. “Fine, you’re an adult… uh, an adult baby kitten. Gangly little bastard. You just — just  stay over there.” He threw his hands up and headed further into the apartment. Peter squinted after him, listening to the <em> clank </em> of bottles slamming around in a fridge.</p><p><em> That’s right, </em> Peter thought. <em> And </em> stay <em> out. </em></p><p>He was resting on the laurels of his glorious victory when his spidey sense went haywire and there was a <em> noise </em> and <b> <em>monster </em> </b> and <b> <em>DOG, BAD, VERY BAD</em></b>.</p><p>Peter exited left (and up), pursued by a hellhound. The pads of his paws gripped easily on brick as he skittered to the top of a bookcase. He huddled over a copy of <em> The Metamorphosis </em> (a little too on the nose, thanks) and glared down. The dog glared up, its hulking mass crisp amid a coalescing vignette of purple shadow. Well, it half-glared. Its single eye glittered with enough malice to more-than make up for any shortcomings the beast might have regarding depth perception. Director Fury had <em> nothing </em> on this goliath. Fisk could only <em> dream </em>of such presence.</p><p>“Aw, Lucky, leave him alone, he’s little.” The behemoth let out another massive bellow. Peter hissed. Hawkeye jumped and looked up. “Uh, how did you get up there, little kitty?” Peter hissed even harder. A low, angry moan filled his chest, spilling out the back of his throat. The damnable brute merely tilted its head, tongue lolling.</p><p>Hawkeye stared up at him. “If I was gonna find a kitten, why did I get stuck with an antagonistic little shit like you? Lurking up there, above everybody… maybe I should call you Spider-Man.” </p><p><em> What?! </em> thought Peter. <em> How does he know?? </em></p><p>“mew mew mew-mrow!” he shrieked. </p><p><em> It’s me, you’re right, it’s me, and I </em> know <em> I’m an antagonistic shit (to you especially, because you’re the absolute worst),</em><em> and you have </em> no <em> reason to want to help me, but... I just want to go home. </em></p><p>“I don’t know what you want,” Hawkeye snapped. “I’m tired, and my bruises have bruises, and you're very <em>loud, </em>and I’m not a cat person. You do what you want. I’ll be upstairs icing my knee and drinking a beer in the bathtub.” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not, uh, not that you care. Because you are a cat. Cool, uh... sleep tight I guess, trash cat.”</p><p>Hawkeye was obviously favoring his right knee as he made his slow way up the stairs and Peter couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him. Still, he watched the railing with suspicion after man and dog had ascended, eying the soft projection of shadows on the ceiling as they moved above him. </p><p>He curled up in a tight ball of mistrust, considering next steps. He should take the opportunity to check the place out while Hawkeye and that <em> vicious attack dog </em> were upstairs.</p><p>Surveillance was easier said than done. The books under his feet were crisp and bright but everything beyond was blurry and washed out. Weren’t cats supposed to have good vision? He peered down at the nearby windows, outlined muddily in streetlight beams. The light fell ominously on vague, boxy furniture. Even from his vantage point on the bookshelf he could barely see the far end of the apartment. It was long, he could tell that much, some kind of a converted warehouse. His gaze tripped along dusky brick walls until the color and texture faded into a blur. It was like a vintage Snapchat filter had done a hit-and-run on a Van Gogh. </p><p>Peter felt the sudden urge to push his glasses up his nose. He blinked, surprised. He hadn’t felt that since he was fifteen years old, walking through an Oscorp lab. Of all the things the spider bite had changed, he <em> certainly </em>didn’t miss the glasses. </p><p>Dread crept along as the thoughts kept rolling in. Would he have to get glasses again? Did they even <em> make </em>glasses for cats? How would they stay on his tiny head?</p><p>Wait. Right.</p><p>
  <em> Surveillance.</em>
</p><p>Peter was going to have to get paws on the ground if he wanted to see anything. He huffed and spidey-crawled his way down from the bookshelf. Casting a deeply suspicious look at the sound of running water from above, he headed deeper into the space.</p><p>At the end of the room, a small, open kitchen emerged from the gloom. Peter made the leap to the countertop easily and shamelessly. There wasn’t too much to snoop. A few dirty dishes. A book (<em>Make Room! Make Room! — </em>whoa, grim). Two coffee pots (why?). He poked his entire head into one, only to jerk back when he found it half full of stale coffee <em> (why??). </em>A few more books. Peter wouldn’t have pegged Hawkeye as a reader, let alone enough of one to need Kitchen Books.</p><p>The island was covered in clutter — even more books, unopened mail. An arrow which Peter eyed with supreme distrust, carefully labeled “TASER ARROW” in scotch tape. A few <em> actual print newspapers. </em> God, this dude was old. He ‘accidentally’ kicked the copy of <em> The Daily Bugle </em> onto the floor as he hopped down.</p><p>Under the stairs was <em> another fucking bookshelf. </em> Seriously, Hawkeye had to be fucking with him or something. They must all be hollow books to hide his priceless collection of motel soap carvings. If you pulled on the right one, a wall would revolve and you’d find yourself sliding down to the Hawkcave. </p><p>Someone needed to buy this dude a Kindle while there were still forests in the world.</p><p>Hawkeye’s precious bow was on top of the shelf, and as painful as it was to admit it… Peter was a little awestruck. This was the bow that had defended New York against the Chitauri back when Spider-Man was just a twinkle in an evil scientist’s eye. It was also the only thing he’d come across so far that seemed to have been placed with intention. It lay in perfect line with the wall, quiver carefully parallel. </p><p>Peter reached out a tentative paw and <em> booped </em>the end of an arrow. </p><p>He remembered the taser arrow on the kitchen counter.</p><p>He slowly withdrew his paw.</p><p>With a sigh, he began the long trek back to the other end of the room. He passed a TV, a couch, and — three guesses, the first two don’t count — a recreation of the Venus de Milo. No, kidding, it was more fucking <em> bookshelves. </em></p><p>His truly epic rant about the <em>Clint Barton Memorial Rainforest Museum</em> was hitting peak momentum when he was rudely interrupted by two dark figures, emerging from the darkness to scare the ever-loving shit out of him. His heart pounded as he glued himself to the floor, slinking closer to the intruders. He wasn’t afraid of no cat burglars. He was <em> Spider-Cat. </em>With a great leap he struck, claws sinking deep into — </p><p>Foam. Dense, heavy foam.</p><p>The good news was that Peter had just successfully defended Hawkeye’s apartment against a nefarious incursion of archery targets. </p><p>The bad news was that, well… ditto.</p><p>He jumped down, back puffing in embarrassment. Given his intel, he was going to consider this a job well done. Because the universe wasn't done laughing at him, his strategic retreat from the scene of his ignoble victory sent him tumbling over a paint can. A copy of <em> Teen Vogue </em> slid off the haphazard stack of glossy magazines and hit him in the head.</p><p>The entire heap crowded against a boxy window seat, stripped to bare wood and half-refinished. An eclectic parade of perfect, shiny magazine models and ransom-note newsprint spread halfway across the flat surface. He sat down and pawed at the loose clippings. Apparently Hawkeye was into — découpage? He tipped his head. The little letters seemed to be staring back.</p><p>He sneezed, exactly three times.</p><p>The tiny sneezes were loud in the empty space, and he realized with a start that the loft above had gone silent. He should probably check it out. He wasn’t too excited about being in close proximity to Hawkeye and Hawk-Mutt, but Spider-Man knew the value of good recon. And he had to admit that, after his survey of the downstairs, he was curious about the upstairs. </p><p>Curiosity may have killed the cat, but Peter had survived a lot of things that should have killed him, so this should be fine. Probably. What’s the worst that could happen? He crept up the stairs.</p><p>Well, okay.</p><p>‘Crept’ implied a level of grace that was probably not accurate. The rise of each stair was taller than the length of his stupid, tiny kitten body, so it was more of a scrambling heave, back legs pedaling against the air of the open gap between steps. </p><p>He didn’t fall.</p><p>He <em> didn’t. </em></p><p>It was more of a… rapid, but controlled, descent. And he most <em> certainly </em>did not end that descent hanging off the back of one stair by his armpits, fighting a sudden urge to tell someone having a crappy day at work to ‘hang in there!’</p><p>As he scrambled back onto the stair, he thanked that long-ago spider for his fast reflexes and sticky paws.</p><p>Wait.</p><p>He was <em> Spider-Man. </em>Spider-Cat. Spider-Something. Point was, what was he doing climbing stairs like a chump? With a quick hop he was on the wall, running lightly up into the loft.</p><p>He screeched to a halt at the top, almost tumbling back down the way he came.</p><p>
  <b> <em>Dog.</em> </b>
</p><p>The beast was lying on the floor at the top of the stair, inches from his nose. He froze, hackles raised into the biggest cat pose his little body could perform.</p><p>Its horrible eye stayed closed. Its giant, bellowing breaths stayed steady. It was... </p><p>It was asleep. </p><p>Peter felt a little stupid. </p><p>He tiptoed over its head, making sure he was <em> well </em> out of range before he dropped to the floor. There was no sign of Hawkeye, but a door at the back corner was slightly ajar. The fluorescent yellow light spilling out was sickly, made worse by the truly terrible shade of green he could just glimpse on the bathroom walls. Peter stretched his neck tentatively around the corner.</p><p>Hawkeye was folded into the tiniest tub that Peter had ever seen (and, as a New Yorker, he <em> knew </em> from tiny tubs). The rust-stained porcelain was just not meant to contain the lanky tangle of elbows and knees. The man didn’t seem to mind, though. One of his legs hung over the side, keeping his knee out of the water as a frozen bag of peas slowly thawed down his shin into tiny rivulets of ice melt. He had an arm draped over his eyes and, true to his word, his other hand loosely grasped a bottle of beer. Condensation was quickly sweating through the bandages wrapped around his fingers, and at some point he’d kicked over his bag of epsom salts. Peter couldn’t quite tell if he was asleep, or dead.</p><p>Peter observed him for a minute or two, feeling a little creepy. But hey, what was the point of being a kitten if you couldn’t be a little bit of a creep? The bruising on that knee looked bad, although from what Peter could see it was his worst injury. He wasn’t sure what kind of healing factor Hawkeye had, but it shouldn’t take too long to be back in fighting form.</p><p>He was struck by a sudden, irrational urge to lick the drops of water off Hawkeye’s calf. He could almost feel how satisfying the damp, salty skin would feel under his scratchy little tongue.</p><p>Wow.</p><p>Embarrassing.</p><p>He turned away. Ugh. Whatever. Forget dumb Hawkeye and his dumb, tiny bathtub.</p><p>The rest of the loft was pretty simple. Giant bed (of course the bougie jerk had a king). Peter massaged his toes into the soft mattress, thinking grumpily of the half-broken futon shoved into a corner of his own tiny studio. There was one bedside table, a sturdy thing decorated with a collage of giant daisies. Huh. It was hard to imagine stiff, stern Hawkeye sitting on the floor, carefully cutting up magazines like a soccer mom who just discovered <em> The Artist’s Way. </em> </p><p>Yeah, naw, Peter couldn't see it. </p><p>Not much else. There was a small closet, and he briefly entertained the delightful thought of hiding on the top shelf and leaping onto Hawkeye from above. He gave his head a firm shake, eyeing the crumpled comforter. The dark fabric seemed to move and shift in the light from the bathroom and the world suddenly came a lot more into focus and, and, aaaaaand…  </p><p>
  <em> pounce </em>
</p><p>Peter sprung into the air and landed dead center, legs and claws extended. His eyes went impossibly wide as he skittered across the bed, pouncing at shadows.</p><p>This blanket was the <em> best thing </em> that had <em> ever </em> happened to him. </p><p>Kitten brain was <em> wild. </em> </p><p>He darted back and forth with glee until a tangled charging cord caught his eye, glistening enticingly from the cluttered side table. With a giant wallop, the Most Exciting Cable Ever (and accompanying dinosaur of a flip phone) went sliding and crashed to the floor. Uh, whoops. Peter froze, but there was no sign of movement from the bathroom.</p><p>Wait. </p><p>Something had gone flying down with the phone… something interesting… with, like, wires? Wires!</p><p>He went diving for the floor (only landing on his face a teeny, tiny bit). Yes! Dongle! He whacked it, and it went sliding under the bed with a satisfying <em> zip </em>across the hard floor. He slid under the bed after it, singing the Mission Impossible theme in his head. With a mighty pounce, he looked up and — </p><p>He was being observed by an eye. A single eye. A single, <em> very </em>judgemental eye.</p><p>
  <em> Lucky. </em>
</p><p>His <em> nemesis. </em></p><p>He arched his back and poofed out all his fur and hissed. His <em> growl </em> found a way to growl.</p><p>Lucky set his chin on his paws. With a long-suffering sigh, he went back to sleep.</p><p>Peter narrowed his eyes. That’s <em> right. </em> No dog gets the best of Spider-Cat.</p><p>Victory achieved, he decided that discretion was the better part of valor and maybe it was time to make his way back downstairs.</p><p>He definitely didn’t forget to take the wall.</p><p>And if he <em> did </em> forget, and <em> did </em>try attempting the stairs, he definitely didn’t end up tumbling down them, once again saved only by virtue of his sticky paws.</p><p>That’s <em> right, </em> stairs. Take <em> that.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Safely (and more importantly, gracefully) on terra firma, Peter yawned in that jaw-unhinging way that only a kitten can.</p><p>He was <em> exhausted. </em>The trip (hah) up and down the stairs had really taken it out of him, and his bruised ribs were letting him know how unhappy they were with his life choices. Just trekking up and down the length of the stupidly long apartment had been a marathon on his dumb, short kitten legs. Plus the emotional stress of being turned into a kitten in the first place, and, oh yeah, the earlier Avengers battle, and the short night of sleep he’d gotten the night before… </p><p>And, of course, arguing with Hawkeye. That would make anybody need a nap.</p><p>With another yawn he jumped up on the window seat, digging his claws luxuriously into the floral seat cushions. Where did Hawkeye come up with this stuff? It was all the weird, tacky junk that Peter passed over with an eye roll at the thrift store, but somehow it worked. It was… cozy. It all fit.</p><p>Ugh, he was <em> not </em> complimenting Hawkeye’s interior decorating skills.</p><p>He took another look at the space (for communication ideas, not design inspiration, <em> obviously). </em> Hawkeye wasn’t what you’d call tidy, but he kept things pretty minimal. </p><p>Peter could pull out a perfect combination of books to spell out his message. Maybe the other super happened to own a copy of <em> Are You There, Hawkeye? It’s Me, Spider-Man. </em> Or he could dig around in the kitchen for flour or something to spill. No, that was stupid. Hawkeye didn’t really seem like the kinda guy who made his own sourdough. At least, not intentionally — Peter was pretty sure he'd heard something reaching out for first contact in the dude’s coffee pot.</p><p>Still, there had to be <em>something. </em></p><p>Peter would just have a little rest right now. A few hours of sleep, and then he’d spell out a message for Hawkeye to wake up to in the morning. They’d get this whole mess fixed.</p><p>Was Hawkeye the kind of dude who woke up at 5am and went running? Ugh, probably. </p><p>He grumbled at the audacity of morning people as he curled into a tight, little ball. </p><p>Just a quick nap…</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sjFpfZ3HPUY">Have some kittens attempting to climb stairs.</a> And, to prepare you for the next chapter, <a href="https://waterme-stories.tumblr.com/post/623508758055780352/clintscoffeepot-clintscoffeepot">Clint's <em>amazing</em> apartment,</a> which is the only place I ever want to exist for the rest of my life.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Bruises and Bushy Tails</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>So, it turned out being a cat dad was harder than Clint expected. </p><p>(In which Peter doesn’t know too much about Hawkeye, Clint doesn’t know too much about cats, and Kate just wants to pet a dog.)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>We're back, folks!</strong> Turns out the Midsummer holidays really rustled my jimmies. Jiggled my jollies. Inspired me to write and post <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740493">three Spideypool works in a single week,</a> <em>if ya know what I mean.</em> </p><p><strong>This chapter contains some written interpretations of lip-reading, and American Sign Language notated with ASL gloss / syntax.</strong> This is something that features quite heavily in the <a href="https://twitter.com/LetsTalkBarton/status/1119737006513373190">Matt Fraction / David Aja comics, and pops up in other Hawkeye comics.</a> If you, the reader, find it awkward to read those snippets of dialogue... well, it's awkward for Clint, too. Please note that I'm not trying to portray the Deaf community (Clint was deafened later in life, and, as far as I can tell, still spends most of his time around hearing people). If you have any feedback on the way I've conveyed things in this fic, please feel free to reach out, either in a comment or through the email on my profile &lt;3</p><p>If you find yourself writing a character who is Deaf, deaf, or hard-or-hearing, I encourage you to do a little research before you jump on in. And if you haven't seen Bad Lip Reading's <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RySHDUU2juM">"Bushes of Love,"</a> you gotta. It's funny as heck, but also a BOP.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Peter woke slowly in the sunlight.</p><p>It wasn’t a comfort he often got to enjoy in his tiny studio with its even tinier windows, hemmed in as it was by the looming bulk of other, newer, high-rises on either side. A home and a life overshadowed by giants. The light shining down on him now was watered-down from its leisurely saunter around buildings and through city smog, but it was late enough to be high in the sky, and cheerful as it warmed his fur. Even his old, lumpy mattress felt extra comfortable this morning. He yawned, arching his back luxuriously.</p><p>Was it Saturday?</p><p>No, it was Friday, shit, he was <em>late, </em> he was gonna be late for class…</p><p>Nope. No. It was worse. A shiver of realization zinged uncomfortably through his fur. He wasn’t late. <em> He was a kitten.</em> He was a kitten, and he had just woken up in Hawkeye’s apartment.</p><p>Great.</p><p>For a moment he considered just going back to sleep. Pretending none of this was happening. But he couldn't. He was Spider-Man, and that meant he was going to face the day. He reluctantly opened his eyes.</p><p>The space he was in was absolutely, undeniably <em>purple. </em></p><p>Peter tried to remember if cats were colorblind. Did they have some sort of violet filter? Did they see the world like an eternal Instagram photo? He looked outside to check his white balance. Huh. The colors of the street looked pretty normal, although his vision was still acting up. His perception was washed out and blurry around the edges, sharp and bright in the center. A bird flew by and his focus snapped to it, the rest of the world fading and shimmering until it flew out of sight. </p><p>But as strange as it was to see the world through the selectively focused eyes of a hunter, the view out the window didn’t contain even a hint of lavender, not a whisper of aubergine. The single lonely tree was green, the sidewalks were grey. Not a streak of plum in sight. He turned back to the apartment.</p><p>All the colors that he’d taken for deep blues and grays in the dim evening light were purple, and purple only. The brick walls were painted a dusky mauve, complemented by lavender floors and creamy heather bookshelves. To be fair, Hawkeye had really gone out on a limb with pale blue cabinets. A bold decision, that pop of periwinkle in the sea of eggplant.</p><p>This was… a lot.</p><p>He had to give the guy credit; at least he knew how to stick to a theme. Hopefully this was a condo, because Hawkeye was <em>not </em>getting his deposit back.</p><p>Ugh. It was Hawkeye. The jerk probably owned the damn <em>building. </em></p><p>Speaking of… as expected, the man himself was doing a morning workout in the middle of the large room. He was —   </p><p>Well, as far as Peter could tell — </p><p> </p><p>Look, it was objectively important to note that Hawkeye was currently <em>a lot more naked than Peter had expected him to be. </em></p><p><em> Fair enough, </em> Peter supposed. <em> If you’re in your own apartment, why put on more than a pair of sweats? Not like your super-coworker is gonna be there. Magically disguised as a cat. Ogling your unfairly cut abs. As an example. </em></p><p>Honestly, Peter couldn’t focus on those abs nearly as much as he would have liked, because Hawkeye was beat <em>up. </em> Dude looked like he had brought a piece of paper to a scissor fight, and then followed up on that bold decision by showing up to a rock fight with a pair of scissors.</p><p>Peter blinked his mostly-healed eye and breathed deep, feeling grateful for his own healing factor. His ribs twinged a little, but not nearly as bad as they had yesterday. Honestly, they were healing faster than he’d expected. Huh. Maybe there was something to this whole ‘good night’s sleep’ thing.</p><p>Eh. Naw. Must have been the magic.</p><p>Anyway, here’s Hawkeye, and what did he do when he had a fucked up knee? Did he take the day off? Did he skip leg day? Nah. He just did pistol squats, balancing on his good leg without even the hint of a wobble.</p><p>
  <em> Ugh. </em>
</p><p>At least being righteously indignant helped Peter take his mind off those quads… and that vast expanse of sweaty skin… and… </p><p>Nope.</p><p>When all this was over, Peter was giving in and reinstalling Grindr.</p><p>Okay, but seriously, did this guy not have a healing factor? Because his bruises looked worse than they had the night before. He should <em>really </em>be at the Tower’s medical facilities right now, not at home building his P90X bod for Peter’s amusement. And he had the nerve to call <em> Peter </em>out for being showy.</p><p>With a huff, Peter jumped down, only to spring straight back up onto the bench at the sight of… </p><p>
  <em> Lucky. </em>
</p><p>The bane of Peter’s existence.</p><p>Lucky eyed him. Which, to be fair, was the only thing he was capable of. Peter wondered what had happened; a missing eye didn’t seem all that lucky. Anyway, never one to run from a fight, Peter lept forth from above. Gotta establish <em>dominance. </em> Show that dog who’s the <em>alpha </em> (even though that study was <em>disproven). </em>He squared up in front of the mighty beast.</p><p>The mighty beast sighed loudly and shut its eye.</p><p>Well. Great. Now that justice had been served and dominance asserted, time to move on to the bigger challenge: <em> Hawkeye. </em> The first step to getting out of this jam was getting the man’s attention.</p><p>Peter hadn’t really come up with a plan, so much, but hey, just improvise, right? He could probably just do a Spider-Man thing, and at the very least it would be strange enough that Hawkeye would freak out and take him to the Tower to get a science explanation for his weird-ass new cat.</p><p>Peter yowled.</p><p>Hawkeye ignored him.</p><p>He tried again. Maybe he wasn’t as loud as he thought? Lucky’s head popped up and he shot Peter a <em> very </em>offended glare before burying his head in his paws. Still nothing from the man himself, though.</p><p>
  <em> Hello! Earth to Hawkeye! </em>
</p><p>What kind of jerk ignored a crying kitten?!</p><p>Well, fine. No more Mr. Nice Cat. Peter marched up to where Hawkeye was doing The Longest Scantily-Clad Plank In History (fucking <em> show-off) </em> and <em>bapped </em>him on the ankle. </p><p>He, uh, may have accidentally used more claws than intended. </p><p>Hawkeye <em>may </em>have screamed and fallen over.</p><p>Peter was still getting used to this strange new world, okay? Anyway, it was totally Hawkeye’s fault for ignoring him.</p><p>Hawkeye wasn’t ignoring him now, at least. He stared at Peter in surprise, rubbing gingerly at a rapidly reddening elbow. “Oh!” he said. “Uh… Trash Cat! I forgot about you.”</p><p>“Yow!” demanded Peter. <em> How could you forget about me? I am </em><b><em>loud. </em> </b>“Yow, mrowww!”</p><p>“I’m not sure whatever you’re saying, little dude, but I’m sure it’s very interesting. Little lady? Little friend?”</p><p>With an offended flick of his whiskers, Peter turned tail and marched across the room, yowling all the way to the bookshelf. Nose in the air, he slowly and deliberately climbed straight up the side. He looked back at Hawkeye.</p><p>Hawkeye was… rubbing at his elbow, staring in the other direction. Oh my <em>god. </em>Had he even noticed? Peter dug his sticky toe pads into the wood and lashed his tail.</p><p>Lucky noticed and barked sharply, nudging at Hawkeye. Apparently Lucky was a goody two-shoes narc. Figured. And figured that Hawkeye would listen to the <em>dog. </em> Peter saw how it was in this household. </p><p>At least Peter got the joy of watching Hawkeye practically jump out of his skin when he <em>finally </em>saw what Peter was up to. About time. Peter hated it when his acrobatics went underappreciated. He fought the urge to do jazz hands — mainly because he couldn’t figure out the logistics. And because he didn’t, technically, have hands. </p><p>“Hey!” said Hawkeye, striding over. “Spider-Cat!” <em> Yes, yes, it’s me, now we’re </em>getting <em>somewhere! </em> “Get your claws outta my bookcase!”</p><p>Wait. <em> What? </em></p><p>Yeah, no, Hawkeye <em>scruffed </em>him, and Peter did not <em>like </em>and did not <em>want </em>and there was a flurry of fur and he fell from a very high distance, no webshooters, <em> shit, </em> he’d had <em>so </em> many nightmares that went <em>just </em>like this, and <em> fuck, </em>it hurt, but at least he landed on his feet.</p><p>Huh. Stereotypical, but he wasn’t going to complain.</p><p>Ears flattening, Peter slunk to the couch and jammed himself into a corner into a tight ball of misery. He should try again while he had Hawkeye’s attention, but after all that, he just didn’t have the energy.</p><p>And jeez, what was gonna happen when it worked? Hawkeye would drag him to the Tower where he'd be poked and prodded, and everyone would <em>know, </em> and he just… he couldn’t. He was so <em>tired. </em></p><p>Another nap. Another nap, and then he’d think about trying again.</p><p>Probably.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>So, it turned out being a cat dad was harder than Clint expected.</p><p>Clint was a dog person. Or rather, Clint was a person who owned a dog. Clint wasn’t really a pet person at all, but he’d ended up with a dog and he’d figured that whole situation out, and now he felt about sixty percent confident in his ability to keep a dog alive.</p><p>Cats, though. The only cat he really hung out with was Nat’s cat Liho, and that was mainly in the form of mistrustful eyes glaring daggers from under the couch, and the occasional deep stab wound.</p><p>Nat claimed this was how Liho showed love. Clint thought that this checked out, as this was how Natasha showed love.</p><p>Clint kinda figured cats would be easier than dogs. Chill dudes. Free spirits. But this cat was <em>needy. </em> It got into <em>everything. </em>It had walked straight up the side of his bookshelf. He didn’t see any claw marks, but there had to be damage — he knew firsthand how sharp that little fuck’s claws were. Then, like the tiny asshole it was, it had curled up happily and took a nap. Immediately after its nap it’d climbed into his kitchen cupboards and knocked over a carton of baking soda that he didn’t even know he <em> owned. </em> Then it hopped down, gave him a meaningful look that said it knew <em> exactly </em>what it had done, pawed at the baking soda, and proceeded to have a sneezing fit.</p><p>The bright side was that — because he’d misplaced his hearing aids like a total dumbass — he couldn’t <em> hear </em> the kitten. By the shape of its little face and by Lucky’s long-suffering looks, it had spent all morning screaming.</p><p>Okay, but losing his hearing aids wasn’t really a bright side. Like, at all. <em> Fuck. </em></p><p>Clint sighed. The kitten sneezed, and looked up at him with sad, watery eyes.</p><p>“Aw, kitten,” he said, and scooped it up. For once the dumb thing let him, without making him bleed, even. Probably because it was basically having a conniption. Clint could go for a little TLC that <em> wasn’t </em>induced by a medical emergency, but he’d take what he could get, honestly.</p><p>The damn thing eyed him suspiciously, snout and paws covered in white powder. Heh. Lil’ coke cat.</p><p>Okay, fine. It was cute. He was maybe starting to understand this cat thing.</p><p>Lucky looked sadly up at him. Was he forgetting something? What’s up, bud? Oh! Right. Feed the dog.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Shit.</p><p>Feed the <em> cat. </em> Cats like being fed. At least that’s what he assumed. This one probably lived on blood and the fear of its enemies. But apparently his and Lucky’s suffering wasn’t keeping it sustained, so he opened the fridge to see if he had anything that might be kitten-friendly. </p><p>Hmm.</p><p>He peered further into the fridge, searching for something <em>human-</em>friendly.</p><p>He closed the fridge.</p><p>So, that was a no-go.</p><p>Cracking open his laptop and opening Yahoo search, he chicken-pecked ‘waht to feed cat.’</p><p>“Huh,” he told the cat, who was glaring at him like it wanted to wear his skin. “It says you can have a little salami, as a treat.”</p><p>Pepperoni was like salami, right?</p><p><em> Total </em>justification to order a pizza, he thought, squinting as he navigated the webform for the neighborhood joint. Just as he hit <em>enter </em>the kitten trotted up, walked straight across his keyboard, and tried to stick its entire head into his coffee mug. “Hey!” he yelped, cupping his hand over the top.</p><p>The kitten sat down and looked at him, eyes wide, whiskers quivering. Its little mouth opened and closed. Clint froze, then hesitantly scooted the coffee mug in its direction. Its ears perked up and it floofed a little, and something deep in Clint’s chest glowed just the teeniest bit as it took a cautious sniff.</p><p>Then the fucking thing made an absolutely horrified face, reared back, and smacked Clint’s favorite mug clean off the counter.</p><p>Okay.</p><p>So.</p><p>He was not aware that kittens were that strong.</p><p>Bye, mug. You lived a good, purple life. </p><p>He glared at the kitten. It stared back at him. <em> How could you? </em> its wide eyes seemed to say. <em> How could you do this to me? That coffee was the </em>worst <em>thing that’s </em>ever <em>happened to me. </em></p><p>Clint sighed and grabbed another mug (a plain white one, because Clint did, occasionally, learn from his mistakes). “My coffee isn’t <em>that </em>bad,” he grumbled, reluctantly scritching the little demon’s head.</p><p>Tiny Satan flattened itself onto the counter and buried its tiny face in its tiny paws. At least it had the decency to look a <em> little </em>guilty. Clint sighed and picked up a book. </p><p>He read until Lucky nudged at his legs, giving an obvious and long-suffering eye roll towards the door. Thanks, good buddy. He should maybe replace the bulb in that doorbell at some point… </p><p>He opened the door to the pizza girl, and barely stopped himself from groaning out loud. She was cute and nice and usually a little flirty, and, <em> super </em>awkwardly… a mumbler. </p><p><em> “… (probably a greeting?)...” </em> she said. <em> “... wait</em><b><em>ing</em> </b> <em> … … owl spy(??)” </em></p><p>“Uh, great. How are you?” Clint guessed, hoping he didn’t come off as a total perv as he stared at her lips.</p><p>She looked a little put out. Clint winced. She muttered, <em>“ … b</em><b><em>e</em></b><em> dreaded(??)</em><b><em> seven,</em></b><em> (a number?)</em> <em>four.”</em></p><p>“Uh, sorry, was that ‘twenty-seven’ or ‘thirty-seven’?” He tapped his ears. “Sorry.”</p><p>Pizza Girl went pale. She looked like she wanted to die. Aw, girl, it’s fine, you don’t gotta feel bad. How much? Please, <em> please </em>stop apologizing. Especially not to the floor, it can’t read your dang lips either. Twenty-seven. Great. </p><p>“Seriously, no worries,” he said as he forked over the cash. “Have a good one!”</p><p>“ … …<em> bushes of love(???) </em> …”</p><p>“Yeah, you too, bye!”</p><p>Oof. That was enough human interaction for one day, thanks.</p><p>He eyed the kitten. He wasn’t feeling super confident about non-human interactions, either. Hesitantly, he offered it a piece of pepperoni, jerking back when the damn thing nipped his fingers. Whoa. Okay. Slow down there, kitty. More? Okay, okay, more.</p><p>By the time it had inhaled its third piece of pepperoni, Clint was starting to have second thoughts. He should probably find it something that <em> wasn’t </em>pepperoni. He didn’t want to give the tiny thing a tiny heart attack. Could cats even have heart attacks? Did he have any tuna? He just didn’t know too much about cats. </p><p>He was eyeing his empty cupboards and thinking through the logistics of kitten CPR when Lucky appeared in his sight, mouth wide in a bark. Clint whipped around just in time to see the entire pizza slide off the counter and onto the floor.</p><p>“Aw, pizza, no!”</p><p>The little shit was happily stuffing its face. It hissed as he got closer, the fur on its back standing on end. </p><p>“You’re not supposed to… you <em> really </em>shouldn’t have all of that.” Because, uh, sodium. Or dairy? Well, that didn’t make sense, cats love milk. Everyone knew that.</p><p>Lucky poked his head around the corner, braving the little puff-ball of doom to snag a slice. Clint sighed. If Lucky thought it was okay, it was probably fine. Lucky probably knew more about cats, anyway.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Okay, but — </p><p>The kitten was a little <em>shit. </em></p><p>Seriously.</p><p>Who knew you could fit that much bastard in such a tiny body?</p><p>It had knocked over his books. It had torn up a newspaper while looking at him demandingly, mouth open in what Clint could only assume was a shriek. It had eyed a can of paint until Clint rushed to put it up before the damn thing could either spill it, or drown in it, or both. At one point it sneezed right in his face, clawed the cut over his eye, and then had looked incredibly smug about both.</p><p>It kept bringing him <em>live fucking spiders </em>and looking at him expectantly. Yes, good job, you’re the mighty hunter, now <em>please </em>either eat it, or let the poor guy go.</p><p>It refused to stop climbing up into places it shouldn’t. At least, he thought it shouldn’t be able to get up that high? Lucky sure couldn’t get to the top of the fridge, for example, and he was <em>way </em>bigger than a tiny kitten. But Clint didn’t really know much about cats.</p><p>Well. Okay. He <em>now </em>knew that when a little kitten got itself into a big predicament at a high elevation... that it was a strong, independent cat who didn’t need no Avenger to rescue it. He was wearing a few new bandages to remind himself of <em>that </em>lesson.</p><p>While he was bandaging himself up (and the kitten was taking a tranquil fridge nap), Lucky got the door (thanks, bud). In came Tito, asking about the new wiggly-rubbery bit for his misbehaving toilet.</p><p>Ah yes. That part. That part that Clint had definitely ordered. “It’s uh, it’s on the way. But I can come see if there’s anything I can do for now?”</p><p>Clint guessed, through pantomime and a few pointed notes on a dog-shaped sticky pad, that Tito was Not Buying His Shit. Clint rubbed the back of his neck. Tito and his passive-aggressive Golden Retriever sticky had a point. This was the third time this month, and honestly, he should just call someone about it. Who do you call? Plumber? Toilet exorcist? The only bright side was that he couldn't hear Tito griping at him as he manned the plunger. </p><p>Wait. Right. Missing hearing aids. <em> Still </em>not a bright side.</p><p>Fingers crossed the fix would hold, at least. <em> Tomorrow, </em> he thought. He’d get the part and fix the toilet tomorrow. Ugh, Aimee’s sink, too. He bet <em> Thor </em>didn’t have to deal with leaky toilets. Probably had magical Asgardian chamber pots or something. Huh. Maybe he could call in a favor with the zappy dude and get some installed… </p><p>Anyway, by the time he got back from <em>that </em>shitshow, he just didn’t have the emotional fortitude to chase the lil devil spawn around anymore. It had fucked off to somewhere, and he guessed he should find the lack of activity <em>super </em>worrying, but honestly — he couldn’t bring himself to care. </p><p>Clint was just… tired. He was tired, and he hurt all over, and he still owed Captain America a ‘little chat,’ which was gonna feel exactly as good as getting hit in the eye with a bald eagle pellet filled with the partially digested bones of neo-Nazis. He couldn’t be an Avenger right. He couldn’t be a landlord right. He couldn’t even own a <em> cat </em>right. So, yeah, if he wanted to ignore whatever havoc that the damn thing was currently wreaking and chill on the couch with Lucky, he damn well would.</p><p>Lucky jumped up with a start. </p><p>Cool. He couldn’t even hang out with his <em>dog </em>right. Clint squeezed his eyes shut. “What’s the little container of menace up to now?” he asked out loud. Lucky nudged his hand and he opened his eyes.</p><p><em> “Who you </em> <b> <em>calling</em> </b> <em> a </em> <b> <em>menace</em></b><em>?” </em></p><p>“Hawkeye!” he exclaimed.</p><p><b> <em>“Hawkeye!”</em> </b> she returned.</p><p>The fearsome young woman standing before him in a floral sundress and designer heels sharp enough to kill a man was none other than his kinda-protégé: Kate Bishop, AKA Hawkeye.</p><p>Long story.</p><p>She was a spoiled brat. She was a constant pain in his ass. She wouldn’t actually <em>admit </em>to being his protégé if someone held a gun to her head. Or if someone held a gun to <em> Clint’s </em>head (and he knew both, from first-hand experience). She had an obnoxious habit of waltzing in at all hours like she owned the place, drinking his coffee, using his shit, and — on one memorable occasion — stealing his dog.</p><p>She was pretty great.</p><p>Shit, she’d been talking and he hadn’t been paying attention. Ugh. His head hurt. He liked Kate a whole lot, but he just wasn’t up for this today.</p><p>“Sorry, say that again?” he asked. “Lost my ears somewhere.”</p><p><b> <em>“!!!”</em> </b> she said, signing as she spoke. Her ASL was getting better, and at least she knew how to enunciate. Unlike <em>some people. </em> Sorry, Pizza Girl. <b> <em>“Said you look-like shit.”</em> </b></p><p>“Thanks. Uh, thanks for that.”</p><p>
  <b> <em>“You be-careful+more your things.”</em> </b>
</p><p>“I’m not careful with you, and that’s worked out just fine.”</p><p>She glared. He glared back.</p><p>She slumped down on the couch and plopped her feet on his lap, grabbing impatiently for the remote.</p><p>“Rude,” he whispered, passing it over.</p><p>They bickered a bit more, but mainly she just flipped channels and let him stare into space. That was the thing about Kate — she was annoying as hell, but she knew when to pester him and when to give him a little leeway. </p><p><b><em>“!!!”</em></b> she nudged his shoulder. <b><em>“I heard sound??”</em></b></p><p>“Does it sound like a pissed-off cat?”</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>“Well then, it’s probably that pissed-off cat I found in the garbage yesterday.”</p><p>Her eyes widened. <b> <em>“KITTY!!!”</em> </b> She rushed up the stairs.</p><p>Clint winced as he followed. One way or another, this was gonna end in bloodshed.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>So, it turned out being a cat was more work than Peter expected.</p><p>He was <em>tired. </em></p><p>He’d put in every effort to get Hawkeye’s attention. He’d tried to write out his message in newspaper clippings. He hadn’t quite gotten to the point of, you know, <em> spelling </em>anything, but it was the thought that counted. He’d climbed every wall in the house. Hawkeye had just scratched his head and said, “Huh. Weird cat.” He’d tried meowing a message in Morse code, but that was hampered by the fact that Hawkeye only bothered to acknowledge his meowing a third of the time. And by the fact that Peter didn’t actually know Morse code.</p><p>By mid-afternoon, Peter had given up. He was still recovering from the day before and, honestly, Hawkeye looked <em>beat. </em> If the man was too tired to do more than idly flip through books and fiddle with his arrows, he was probably too tired to pick up what Peter was putting down. Peter wasn’t sure what he’d expected from <em> A Day In The Life Of Hawkeye, </em> but it wasn’t very action-packed. The guy just didn’t do too much. Nothing like Peter’s scheduled-down-to-the-double-booked-minute days and nights.</p><p>Peter had to admit: there was something to be said for the slow, easy life. He’d woken up in the sunshine. He’d taken, like, three naps. He’d eaten his fill of pizza  —  and he was <em> pretty </em>sure pizza wasn’t good for cats, but he was <em>definitely </em>sure he didn’t care. It had been a bit since he’d been able to eat his fill of anything, and he wasn’t too proud for floor pizza. (Turned out, to Peter’s surprise, Hawkeye wasn’t opposed to a floor slice, either.) Maybe it would be good for him to take a day off more often. Except  — </p><p>He’d missed another day of classes. </p><p>Going back on Monday and explaining himself was going to <em>suck.  </em></p><p>… Maybe another nap, to take his mind off things. He was just settling into the direct center of Hawkeye’s dumb, gigantic bed when the door opened in the main floor below him.</p><p>“Lucky!” squealed a woman’s voice. “Oh, whosa good boy? Clint, you here?”</p><p>Hawkeye didn’t respond. Huh. So it wasn’t just cats he was a dick to, it was his friends, too. Or… girlfriend? I mean, of course Hawkeye would have a girlfriend. He was <em> Hawkeye. </em>He probably walked around with three girls hanging from each bicep, like Gaston.</p><p>Peter listened as her heels clicked across the floor, then jumped silently off the bed to creep to the edge of the loft, poking his head through the railing to peek down at — </p><p><em> Purple. </em> That dress was <em>really </em>purple. She fit right in. Was there a dress code to this place or something? Had he missed the memo? How embarrassing, he’d better let Hawkeye know so he could pop back to the Tower to grab his purple tux and get de-kittenified.</p><p> “What’s the little container of menace up to now?” asked Hawkeye.</p><p>Peter’s hackles rose. Who was Hawkeye calling a menace?</p><p>“Who you calling a menace?” she said, hand on one hip.</p><p>That’s <em>right. </em>Who was this new lady? Because she was Peter’s new favorite.</p><p>“Hawkeye!” Hawkeye said.</p><p>What? </p><p>“Hawkeye!” she said back. Other Hawkeye said back? This was gonna get confusing, fast. How could there be two Hawkeyes? Or was Hawkeye (uh, the dude one) a weirdo who also called his girlfriend Hawkeye? This was as ridiculous as having two Spider-Mans. Men. People. Two Spider-People. Long story short, it didn’t make sense. “— did you just hear a word I said?”</p><p>Peter jumped guiltily, only to realize the statement hadn’t been directed at him. Hawkeye was also looking sheepish as he rubbed at the back of his neck.</p><p>“Sorry, say that again? Lost my ears somewhere.”</p><p>His… ears?</p><p>“Oh!” said Other Hawkeye, her hands moving. Sign language? “I said you look like shit.”</p><p>He huffed. “Thanks.”</p><p>Peter’s head buzzed. She was signing. Was she… Deaf? But Hawkeye wasn’t signing back.</p><p>Hawkeye hadn’t heard her come in. Hawkeye had ignored Peter’s yowling. Hawkeye had had an <em>incredibly </em>bizarre conversation with the pizza lady. Hawkeye had… lost… his ears.</p><p>Oh. Oh <em>no. </em></p><p>That little dongle he’d been batting around last night. That wasn’t just any dongle, was it? Stomach sinking, Peter slunk under the bed to look. Sure enough, when he knew what he was looking at, that funny little wiry goober looked a lot like a…  hearing aid.</p><p>Peter’s tail crept between his legs. Slowly, he pushed it out from under the bed with his paw, locating the other one beneath the bedside table on his way out.</p><p>Shit. He was such an <em>asshole. </em></p><p>He didn’t know what to do next, so he did the most reasonable thing available: he sat down and cried.</p><p>“ — cat I found in the garbage yesterday,” he caught Hawkeye saying, and then there was a shriek of <em> “Kitty!” </em> and the clack of heels on the stairs. Peter squared up to meet the coming incursion.</p><p>The woman who rounded the corner was about the same age as Peter, and damn, she had his shoulders, too. <em> Not </em>that he was judging. Peter was a connoisseur of a well-maintained deltoid on humans of any gender, and apparently humans called <em> Hawkeye </em>just happened to have great ones. He wondered what size shirts she wore. Maybe they could closet-swap sometime…  </p><p>She got grabby.</p><p>Peter got swipey. <em> No means no, </em> lady. </p><p><em> “Fuck,” </em> she swore. “This is the worst cat <em> ever.” </em></p><p>Yeah, well you’re the worst human ever, <em> Hawkeye. </em>Guess it comes with the name.</p><p>Hawkeye Prime poked his head up. “Yeah, I was gonna warn you. He’s kind of an asshole.”</p><p>“Figures,” sniffed Lady-Hawkeye. “He found your hearing aids, though.” She chucked them with deadly accuracy at Hawkeye’s chest and he snagged them out of the air just as easily.</p><p>“Aw, see? He’s warming up to me. I’m warming up to him? I don’t know. We’re buds. Kind of. Well. Not really.” He scooped Peter up, and Peter was feeling so guilty that he went ahead and let him. “Uh. Wow. I didn’t think that would actually work. Don’t worry, Spider-Cat. What does a little baby kitten like you even have to worry about, huh?”</p><p>Peter sighed and snuggled sadly into Hawkeye’s glorious pectoral.</p><p>What?</p><p>If this was his life now, he was gonna enjoy the benefits.</p><p>“Spider-Cat?” asked Hawkeye II from her lounge on the bed. “Really?”</p><p>Hawkeye shrugged and flopped down next to her. “I dunno, it just kinda slipped out.”</p><p>“I thought Spider-Man was ‘an insubordinate pain in your ass.’ ”</p><p><em> Wow. Rude. </em>Hawkeye made an uncomfortable sound as Peter squirmed out of his arms. “Yeah, well. So is this cat. Plus it keeps climbing the walls.” </p><p>Small Hawkeye shot Tall Hawkeye a look. “It keeps… you know what, we’ll come back to that. <em> I </em>think you called it Spider-Cat because you want to snug it.”</p><p>“Sounds about righ —  Wait. What? No! I don’t want to snug Spider-Man!”</p><p>“Wow, sex only? You’re a hit-em-and-quit-em kinda guy? It’s only gay if you cuddle after? Wham, bam, thank you Spider-Ma’am? Harsh. I sure dodged a bullet. Well. An arrow.”</p><p>Hawkeye sputtered. Peter’s thoughts exactly. “Please. For the love of anything. Please, just stop. I don’t want to have sex with you, and I don’t want to have sex with Spider-Man, and even if I did” — she made a skeptical noise — <em>“even if I did, </em>it wouldn’t matter, because Spider-Man hates me.”</p><p>“Why, cause you’re a dick?” </p><p>“I mean, probably.” </p><p>“Because, you are.”</p><p>“Mmhmm.”</p><p>“A dick.”</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>“No wonder Spider-Man doesn’t want to fuck you.”</p><p>“I don’t want to —  will you just —  I get it, thanks. I suck more than anyone has ever sucked in the history of being a useless person.”</p><p>“Seriously. You shouldn’t be allowed to mentor me. You shouldn’t even be allowed to mentor a kitten.” </p><p>“That’s okay,” Hawkeye sighed, slumping back. “This kitten knows his shit.”</p><p>“So,” she started. “Speaking of the day job…”</p><p>Hawkeye tensed. “Nothing too exciting,” he joked after a long, awkward moment. “Just another day at the office.”</p><p>“Clint.” She rolled on her side to face him. “I… saw yesterday’s fight. On the news.”</p><p>“Mondays, am I right?”</p><p>Her mouth went tight. “Clint, I saw you get hit! You’re bruised all to shit, and I can <em> tell </em> your knee’s fucked up. You’re fighting <em> gods. </em> You’re fighting alongside super soldiers. And you’re just…” She trailed off.</p><p>“What, Kate?” Hawkeye snapped. “I’m just what?” Peter flattened himself against the comforter. </p><p>“You’re not…”</p><p>“I’m not good enough?”</p><p>“That’s not what I said! Don’t put words in my mouth! You work ten times harder than any of them, but Clint, you’re <em> fragile. </em> One wrong hit and — ” she put a hand on her mouth and looked away. “You’re just… it’s fine. Let’s not fight.”</p><p>“Hey,” Hawkeye sat half up. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay, Katie-Kate. I’ll be careful, you know I’m always careful.”</p><p>“You’re <em> never </em> careful. That’s what scares me.” She tangled her fingers in his, lifting his arm so she could skim her nails over the nasty looking bruise on his forearm.</p><p>“String bit me,” he shrugged. “Still made the shot.”</p><p>“Sloppy,” she said.</p><p>“I know,” he said. “I should obviously retire. You’re Hawkeye, now.”</p><p>“I’m already Hawkeye, old man.”</p><p>“You can be the main Hawkeye, then.”</p><p>“Uh, already am.”</p><p>Peter tuned them out. He suddenly had a <em> lot </em> to process.</p><p>So, first of all, apparently Hawkeye (Kate?) wasn’t Hawkeye (Clint)’s girlfriend. And <em> apparently </em>she teased him about wanting to have sex with Spider-Man (Peter) often enough that it was a running joke.</p><p>That was… a revelation.</p><p>Peter thought maybe he should be creeped out, but mostly he was just confused. Like, if he was being honest with himself, he was what you might call <em> easy — </em>and Hawkeye was seriously his type. One suggestive grin and a well-timed flex and Peter would have been offering to polish that man’s arrows. And then awkwardly clarifying that, when he said that, he meant ‘sucking your brains out through your dick in the equipment room.’</p><p>But Peter couldn’t remember Hawkeye even being outright friendly to him, let alone flirtatious. Cordial, sure, before they started butting heads. But he stayed aloof, stalking around the outskirts of the team with Black Widow like he was too good to get to know a little street-vigilante like Spider-Man.</p><p>Or like…</p><p>Or like maybe he didn’t feel like he fit in, either. </p><p>Which couldn’t be true, because he was <em> Hawkeye. </em>The original (though apparently not the only). Feeling like you didn’t belong on the Avengers was for people like Spider-Man (who was obviously there by accident — someone was going to notice any day now). So what if Hawkeye didn’t have a flashy mutation? He’d been there since the beginning. </p><p>Which led to the next thing. Hawkeye apparently wasn’t enhanced. Or at least, he didn’t have Captain America’s super strength. He wasn’t like Tony ‘I made my own suit in a cave to protect my pesky human insecurities’ Stark with his iron invulnerability. He <em>definitely </em>didn’t have a healing factor. If anything, it was like he had an <em>anti-</em>healing factor.</p><p>Was Hawkeye just a guy? A guy who didn’t even bother to wear <em>sleeves </em>into a full-on alien incursion? A guy who got onto the Avengers because he was <em>good at arrows? </em> </p><p>Look, Peter might be petty, but he could admit when he was impressed.</p><p>He looked at Hawkeye’s beat-up face and felt a sharp swell of fear, followed by hot anger, followed by the ugly, bitten-back thought that Hawkeye shouldn’t even be out there. Kate was right — he could have <em>died </em>yesterday. And every day.</p><p>It wasn’t a fair thing to think, not at all. None of them were guaranteed safety. They all knew what they were signing up for, they all knew every mission could be their last. But if Hawkeye wasn’t enhanced, it made him so <em>vulnerable.  </em>The next time Hawkeye took a hit, was Peter just supposed to sit back and <em>watch? </em>Knowing that he might not get back up?</p><p>Oh.</p><p>
  <em> Oh. </em>
</p><p>Was this —  was this how Hawkeye had felt, watching Iron Man fly into a collapsing building? Seeing his friend head straight into danger, all because Spider-Man had gone off-plan? </p><p>Ears flat, Peter skulked a little closer to Hawkeye — to Clint. He put a paw over his nose and let himself get lost in his thoughts. He was <em> Spider-Man. </em> And that meant it was his job to help people. But what if that meant putting people like Tony or Clint in danger? What if he made the wrong call? How did heroes learn to make the <em>right </em>call?</p><p>Eventually, Clint’s breathing deepened, and Peter realized that at some point he had moved to press against the man’s ribs. Kate’s voice washed over the both of them with soothing little nothings about her day. She finally trailed off, pulling a throw over Clint.</p><p>“You take care of him, huh, kitty?” she said, running a finger over Peter’s head.  </p><p><em> Sure, </em> he thought. <em> Sure thing, Hawkeye. </em></p><p>“Ohmigod,” she scream-whispered. “You have the <em> cutest </em> little meow!” </p><p>Peter blinked and yawned, listening until she slipped out. He arched up in a big, satisfying stretch and thumped heavy back into Clint’s side. Clint mumbled something in his sleep and put a hand over Peter. His hand was almost kitten-sized, and Peter went to sleep comforted by its weight.   </p><p>
  
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Domesticated Life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Peter could respect a man who would rather jump out a window than face one more person asking him for something. </p><p>(In which Lucky takes his responsibilities very seriously, Peter gets startled by a zucchini, and Clint falls out a few windows.)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Peter had been right — Clint <em> did </em> own the building. What Peter hadn’t realized was that apparently owning an apartment building… kinda sucked. He started to have an inkling when they were woken at the ass-crack of dawn by a pounding on the door. Well, Peter was woken by it. Clint was woken by every single one of Peter's claws sinking into his chest. </p><p>Oops. </p><p>Clint fell out of bed <em> (double-oops) </em> with Peter clinging for dear life until he came to his senses, dropped to the floor, and — <em>definitely </em> not ruffled with humiliation — licked his own tail. </p><p>Oh. </p><p>Blech. </p><p><em> Why </em> had he done that?? </p><p>His back prickled with not-embarrassment. </p><p>Clint had managed to scramble to his feet and get his hearing aids in, and was fumbling his way down the stairs as the knocking started up again. "Just a sec!" he yelled. </p><p>Peter heard the door open below him, ears twitching as he tried to hear what was going on. Curious, he crept over the side of the loft and down the narrow strip of wall. Tipping sideways and upside down without a second thought, he poked his head down to eye the door.</p><p>A lean, red-headed man was practically vibrating his way through the open door. "Sorry to bug you so early,” he was muttering, “it's just all over the floor." </p><p>Clint's shoulders slumped. "Yeah, let me just get some pants on and… Oh. Still wearing pants. Slept in last night's clothes, I guess? Anyway. Pants good. Raw sewage in your apartment, not good. I'll. Um. Do I have time for coffee?" </p><p>"Probably for the best," the man said, eying Clint. “And sorry to get s-snappy yesterday, man. I was having a bad day.”</p><p>“No worries, man, hard same. Turns out I actually had one of those goobers in with my tools? So I can fix it right today.” </p><p>The neighbor’s eyes darted up, then froze as he caught sight of Peter's upside-down head peeking out at him. Peter ducked back, guiltily. "Uh, is your cat supposed to be d-doing that?" </p><p>Clint turned to catch sight of Peter. His brow crinkled. "It's probably fine? I just got it, but it was climbing up all sorts of things, yesterday. I, uh, don't know too much about cats." </p><p>"Oh.” There was an awkward silence. "Is it a boy or a girl?" </p><p>Clint blinked. "Yeah, so. I don't know much about cats."</p><p>Once the neighbor was gone, Peter made his cautious way downstairs to find Clint swishing stale coffee around a carafe. He shot Peter a suspicious look and Peter winced. Yeah, okay, he <em> did </em> feel bad about that mug. But, in his defense, that coffee had been, like, the <em> worst </em> thing to ever happen to him. Being a kitten was hard enough. Feline tastebuds denying him the joy that was <em> coffee? </em>Insult to injury.</p><p>“Gotta be an adult today, kitty," Clint said, dumping the dearly departed java down the sink (Peter sighed in relief that it didn’t go into a mug and, from there, into Clint’s body).  "Wish I had your life." </p><p><em> Trade you, </em>thought Peter, but as he scrambled up Clint's jeans and clamored easily to the man's shoulders, life didn't seem so bad. Clint sipped his fresh coffee and fed Peter a little pepperoni. It was all just… nice. Domestic. </p><p>“You shouldn’t have too much of that, I think.” Clint said, digging through his cupboards. “Maybe? I don’t know, I don’t think pepperoni is super good for cats, though.”</p><p>He emerged triumphant with a blue and yellow tin. </p><p>"Maybe you'll like this? I think it tastes like cat food. But, I mean, in a good way. Not that food for cats is bad! But…" </p><p>Peter hissed. </p><p>He may have endured a lot over the past few days, but he was <em> not </em> eating <em> Spam. </em>He'd rather clog every teeny, tiny artery in this teeny, tiny body with pizza grease. </p><p>"C'mon, just try it," Clint said, cracking the can and offering Peter a dollop of pink goo off his fingertip.</p><p>Peter lunged for the offering, because when a dude as hot as Clint offered to stick their fingers in his mouth, he said <em> yes. </em> He didn't have an oral fixation, shut <em> up. </em>Anyway, he quickly forgot all about the manner of delivery.</p><p>Spam was <em> amazing.  </em></p><p><em> "Fuck!" </em>Clint yanked his finger back, sending Peter tumbling to the countertop. </p><p>Right, fair, teeth bad. Well, maybe a little teeth, you know, if you're into that sort of thing and… oh my <em> god. </em>Peter was just going to quit while he was ahead. He buried his face in the open can. He was pretty sure this much salt wasn't good for a kitten's kidneys, but hey, super healing or whatever. </p><p>Lucky poked his head up over the counter to see what all the fuss was about. Peter, mid-purr, heard his own chest emit a strange, warbling growl. </p><p><em> Get your own, mutt, </em> he thought. <em> And then give it to me.  </em></p><p>Lucky huffed and rolled his eye. </p><p> </p><p>Anyway, turned out owning an apartment building <em> sucked.  </em></p><p>Clint, juggling a toolbox and an armful of old towels, tried to keep Peter in the apartment. Which, <em> hah, </em> like <em> that </em>was gonna happen. Peter lept blithely over the foot he was using to block the door, running back up to his shoulders. What? Peter was used to having a good vantage point, okay? And to a little kitten, someone as tall as Hawkeye was basically a skyscraper. </p><p>Lucky barked and romped around his ankles.</p><p>The neighbor (Tito) had a backed up toilet. So that was, uh, exciting. To his credit, Clint didn’t flinch, mopping up the worst of the mess and then getting to it, biceps flexing gloriously as he wielded a wrench and Tito unhelpfully narrated home repair videos from YouTube. Peter and Lucky hung back and supervised. Peter had to say — Hawkeye really knew his way around a toilet fitting.</p><p>As they staggered back toward the apartment (Clint moaning about a shower), a woman with cheerful, bubblegum pink hair popped out of a doorway. "Hey, Hawk Guy!" she called, then spotted his toolbox. "Uh, hate to bother you but… my sink?" </p><p>Clint's shoulders slumped, but he managed to find a smile. "Right, right, sorry it took me so long!" </p><p>"No worries. Are you going to come hang out with us tonight?" </p><p>"Yeah!" said Clint, brightening up as he scratched his head and peered at the caulking peeling around the faucet. He pulled out a roll of plumber’s tape. "Uh, this should work, right?" </p><p>The woman shrugged. Peter winced. He wasn’t great at home repair, but he’d watched Uncle Ben enough to be able to fix a few things around his own rattrap of an apartment (since getting his own landlord to show up was like pulling teeth). Ben’d had strong opinions about cutting corners, and Peter knew that using any kind of tape as <em> any </em> kind of stopgap was almost <em> always </em>the wrong thing to do.</p><p>Oh well. At least Clint was out doing repairs at all. He might not be the best handyman, but he was trying hard, and his tenants seemed to really like him.</p><p>And, to be fair, Clint was apparently a McGyver with this kinda stuff. The tape looked like it might actually hold for longer than caulking, once it was glued down with some craft cement and wound tightly with the bit of frayed bowstring Clint pulled out of his pocket.</p><p>“Sorry it took so long,” he said, once the leak was less leaky. “Uh, hero stuff, or whatever.</p><p>“It’s cool, man, we know how hard you work. See you tonight, Hawk Guy!”</p><p>Wait. Like, a guy, who is a hawk? Peter shook his head until his ears flapped — he must be hearing things. </p><p>With a sigh, Clint was back out the door, only to be waylaid by an old lady in giant dark shades. “Is that you making that racket, Barton?” If looks could kill, the fire extinguisher ten feet to Clint’s right would have been extinguished. “My damn fridge sounds like it’s possessed by a fuckin’ demon.”</p><p>It did.</p><p>It <em> really </em> did.</p><p>That refrigerator was a monster from the pits of hell. It needed to be shot, and then burned, and then the ground on which it had been burned needed to be salted. Luckily for the poor blind lady, Clint agreed.</p><p>“I’ll order you a new one,” he said, taking measurements (using the precision method of ‘the span of his hand’ and ‘a crumpled dollar bill,’ and writing his findings directly on his arm in permanent marker). “I think I have a dorm fridge in storage, in the meantime?”</p><p>“That’ll do,” she nodded. “You know, I don’t know why Wade says you're a slumlord.”</p><p>Clint sputtered. “Can you imagine him owning a building? It'd be a trainwreck.”</p><p>“Oh, honey, it really was. How he got on the bad side of that train, I'll never know. Why do ya think I live here, now?”</p><p>Clint cast a suspicious eye towards the closed door leading to the bedroom. “You know your lease prohibits subletting, right?” </p><p>She snorted. “Honey, that would imply that he pays me rent.”</p><p>Off they went to the storage room — a garage so jam-packed with junk that it was ready to make its debut as the barricades in a high school production of <em> Les Mis. </em> Peter took himself on a little expedition over half-broken chairs and around beat up coffee tables. He was having the time of his life until he came face-to-face with a nest of rats, at which point he decided that bailing the <em> fuck </em> out was the better part of valor.</p><p>
  <em> Horrible. </em>
</p><p>He’d rather face the Spot at a boiling-hot coffee convention than go up against a him-sized Brooklyn rat.</p><p>As he came flying out of the Bad Place at speed, Clint made a sound of triumph as he dislodged a mini-fridge (in cheerful grape, of course). All three of them held their breaths as the heap made an alarming creak, but it stayed steady as they tiptoed out. Peter trotted after Clint and Lucky, trying not to think about what might happen as soon as Clint closed the door. Out of sight, out of mind, and all.</p><p>Plus, if it <em> did </em>collapse, those rats had it coming.</p><p>They limped the fridge back upstairs. “Thanks,” the old lady grumbled, not looking up from the TV. “You coming out tonight?”</p><p>“Wouldn’t miss it.” Clint poked his head into the hallway and looked both ways. He glanced at Lucky and Peter. “Uh, how about I meet you guys up there?”</p><p>Lucky sighed, resting his chin on his paws as Clint climbed out the window. Peter ran to look. Clint wasn’t… he couldn’t be… </p><p>Yup. Toolbox still tucked under one arm, Hawkeye was scaling the brick wall with his bare fingers. The very definition of an extremely competent dumbass. </p><p>Peter could respect a man who would rather jump out a window than face one more person asking him for something. At the same time, remembering Clint’s bum knee — dude, at least take the fire escape or something. He watched Clint until the man flailed, swearing, through his own window. For a moment he considered following, giving his toes a stretch. But Lucky was watching him with a look that said he <em> would </em> be escorting Peter upstairs.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Lucky liked the new Small-Dog.</p><p>At first he hadn’t.</p><p>It was loud and sharp and didn’t really smell like a dog. It knocked over Clint’s Things. It stuck to the walls in ways that weren’t very dog-like <em> at all. </em> It yelled some very rude things at Lucky when he tried to say hello, and it had hurt Clint. </p><p>And Lucky <em> really </em>didn’t like things that hurt Clint.</p><p>But Clint had brought Small-Dog Home, which meant Small-Dog was Clint’s, which meant Small-Dog was Lucky’s. And Lucky took his responsibilities <em> very </em> seriously.</p><p>Lucky was starting to like Small-Dog because Small-Dog made Clint happy. Clint had been happy when he went to sleep with a big dog on one side and a small dog on the other, and Clint had been happy when Small-Dog climbed on his shoulder when they went to say hello to the neighbors and make Loud Sounds and hit things with other things. And while that was Lucky’s favorite day <em> (kitchen grease, toilet water, metal shavings, ear scratches),</em> it made Clint not-happy. Small-Dog had kept Clint happy on Loud Sounds With Neighbors Day, and that meant Small-Dog was doing a better job than Lucky. </p><p>Lucky was okay with that, even though it was<em> his </em> job to make Clint happy. He guessed that sometimes it was Katie-Kate’s job to keep Clint happy <em> (string wax, soy latte, liquid bandage, magnolia-vanilla perfume), </em> so maybe sometimes it could be Small-Dog’s job. Clint had a team, and Lucky could, too.</p><p>And besides, Lucky was a busy dog. Sometimes he had more than one job. Right now Lucky’s job was to get Small-Dog back Home, because Clint had gone and they were still in Old Lady’s apartment <em> (sawdust, taco seasoning, joint ointment, cocaine).</em> Clint was relying on Lucky to keep Small-Dog safe from Predators and Bad Men in the wilds of the apartment hallways.</p><p>Small-Dog did not want to be kept safe from Predators and Bad Men. Small-Dog had this in common with Clint. </p><p>“I’ll just go out the window, man,” Small-Dog said. And, “C’<em>mon, </em> doggo. I’m a big cat, I can take care of myself.”</p><p>Lucky didn’t know what Small-Dog was talking about. Lucky was not ‘man,’ and Lucky didn’t know about this ‘cat’ thing. And Lucky knew that anytime <em> Clint </em> said ‘I can take care of myself,’ he was Very Wrong.</p><p>Small-Dog was coming Home with Lucky whether it liked it or not. </p><p>Without fanfare, Lucky scooped Small-Dog up in his mouth, ignoring how it squirmed and clawed. Lucky wasn’t afraid of pain, and he’d had much worse than this. As they passed Mr. Sweater Vest’s door <em> (gin, hair dye, flamin’ hot cheetos) </em> he heard it whine, “You can’t do this to me. I’m <em> Spider-Man.” </em></p><p>It wasn’t ‘man,’ and Lucky didn’t know what ‘spider’ was. It was clearly a dog, even if it was a small one.</p><p>Small-Dog <em> clearly </em>needed help learning about the world.</p><p>And Lucky was just the dog for the job.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Peter was hiding at the top of Clint’s closet.</p><p> </p><p>He wasn’t proud of this fact. This was far, <em> far </em>from his finest moment.</p><p>Things had just… really escalated, okay?</p><p>See, first he’d arrived back at the apartment (covered in dog slobber, thanks to Lucky’s enthusiastic escort). Clint had beat them there, and, as expected, was showering. With the door open. </p><p>Which was totally fine.</p><p>Peter was a mature, respectful kitten who was perfectly capable of listening to a colleague lathering up without vividly picturing every steamy inch of hot, wet skin. He pressed guiltily to the bed as his mind supplied a sudden image of himself, human-sized — but not <em> quite </em> Clint sized. Small enough that someone with, say, six or eight inches on him could press him nicely against the cool tile, and, well, press six or eight inches <em> into </em>him. Or against him, alongside him, Peter wasn’t too picky as long as it involved slippery skin on skin, and hands and mouths and heat and steam, and… </p><p>Ugh.</p><p>One of Peter’s <em> (many) </em> current problems was that his dumb little cat body wasn’t nearly mature enough to support the thoughts in his big, dumb human brain. He didn’t have the right hormone balance. Hell, he wasn’t sure he had the right <em> parts. </em></p><p>Like, was it too much for a frisky kitty to ask that he just be able to <em> jerk one out? </em></p><p>He played a few rousing rounds of blanket mouse to blow off some steam, but it only helped so much — especially once the shower shut off. In a rare feat of self-preservation, Peter flung himself down the stairs before Clint could emerge from the bathroom. </p><p>This led into Situation Number Two, in which Clint pulled on a pair of those damn low-slung sweats, chased Peter with extreme prejudice down the stairs (okay, maybe just ‘ambled after him’), and then proceeded to work out.</p><p>For <em> four fucking hours.  </em></p><p>Seriously. Who <em>was </em>this guy? He <em>had </em>to have an enhancement .</p><p>He was like a machine with the bow. He wasn’t even doing anything fancy — just straight shots, bullseyes, arrow after arrow, steady as a metronome. For a full <em>hour. </em> A full hour that Peter was <em>forced </em>to spend staring at his shoulders. </p><p>He did bodyweight exercises. He did cardio. He even did <em>yoga. </em>Peter cried a few tiny kitten tears.</p><p>Look. Peter <em>wasn’t </em>a machine, okay? Peter was but a simple cat, and he was a cat who was going to literally <em>die of thirst. </em>(And <em>not</em> because Clint had neglected to put out a water dish.)</p><p>The more he watched Clint, the harder it became to keep his already HR-reportable thoughts even vaguely appropriate. Each push-up had Peter dreaming about Clint pushing him <em>down. </em> A long stretch into down dog, and this kitty was considering doggy style. Every strain and groan… well, that one was obvious.</p><p>Even watching Clint execute the world’s longest-and-most-boring handstand, and all Peter could think was: <em> stamina. </em>Not to mention the possibilities for ceiling sex with someone who could invert that long with no stress, someone who could pull his entire bodyweight up with the tips of his fingers…</p><p>Peter was in trouble, okay? <em> Trouble.  </em></p><p>And the absolutely worst part was, Clint thought it was cute. Cute. Peter rolling around, pawing at the floor, yowling in misery. He thought it was <em>cute. </em>He’d <em>rubbed Peter’s belly, </em>and if Peter had had a single sexual hormone available he would have melted into an instant pile of orgasmic goo, but he <em>didn’t, </em>so instead he took his frustrations out on Clint’s hand.</p><p>Eventually Peter gave up on this sweet torture and skulked upstairs to take a nap, telling himself that the fact that he curled up on the pillow that smelled the most like Clint meant absolutely nothing. He found himself longing to have his human body back, and not even for the sex. Just for the pleasure of a large, hot body wrapped around him, long arms holding him tight… </p><p>
  <em> Trouble.  </em>
</p><p>Which led to Situation Number Three.</p><p>Because when Peter startled to wakefulness to the sound of Clint gasping through the open bathroom door, his first thought was <em> emergency, hurt, must help. </em>He sprang off the bed, looking around frantically until his eyes caught on —   </p><p>Well, what Peter was getting at was —  </p><p> </p><p>Look, it was objectively important to note that Clint Barton had a <em> gigantic </em>dick. Like, proportionate to his frame and then some. And it was also important to note that, arm braced against the steamy mirror, head bowed, hand moving fast, Clint looked like every tawdry porno that Peter had ever jerked off to.</p><p>Peter froze.</p><p>If he’d been human, he knew <em>exactly </em> what he'd do. Whether or not it would <em> work?  </em>Well, that would be up to Clint. But if Peter was human, he’d be in that room faster than you could say ‘questionable consent,’ asking if he could pretty, pretty please get his mouth on that beautiful cock so he could find out if all the things they said about uncut guys were actually true.</p><p>Peter couldn’t tear his eyes away. He knew he should stop watching, knew he shouldn’t memorize the tightness of Clint’s grip, or the way his fingers rubbed just-so at the loose skin around the head. Shouldn’t imagine that cock under his hands, or those hands on his body. Clint turned his head, mouth dropped, cheeks flushed, and he saw Peter, and for a moment Peter was so lost in fantasy that he almost expected him to say —   </p><p>“Aw, weird. Why do cats do that?”</p><p>And suddenly everything snapped into focus, and Peter realized how fucking <em> weird </em>and <em>inappropriate </em>this whole thing was, and turned tail and fled.</p><p>So, long story short, he was going to live in the back of this closet for the rest of his pathetic, furry life.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Correction: Peter was going to live in the back of this closet until Clint cracked open a fresh can of Spam.</p><p>And, once he was downstairs, if there were broad shoulders to romp across and dogs to tease, who was Peter to dwell on the shameful, far-distant memories of twenty minutes ago?</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>They ended their day on the roof, the lights of Brooklyn slowly twinkling to life in the advancing dusk.</p><p>Someone shoved a beer into Clint’s hand the second he stepped through the door, and then they were swallowed in the flurry of activity. Everyone in the building seemed to be there — Tito, and Blind Al, and Aimee-with-the-pink-hair. Aimee’s round-faced, teal-haired girlfriend. Neighbors. Friends. Strangers. It was like something out of a sitcom, a spectacle of outcasts and misfits that was too crazy to be real life. </p><p>Overwhelmed, Peter cuddled up against Clint’s neck, planting his sticky toes and peeking suspiciously over his collarbone. Clint tried to hand him off to a tiny child making terrifying grabby hands, then shrugged. “Yeah, he’s had a long couple of days.”</p><p>It was the hustle and bustle, but also just… he didn’t think he’d ever had this many friends in his <em> life, </em> let alone all in one place. His social life consisted of lunches with MJ (planned, executed, and enforced entirely at her whim) and study groups for his classes. He was too flaky for real friends. Too secretive. Too <em>busy. </em>It was just so <em> much, </em>this glorious riot of humanity that swirled around them.</p><p>Some of the neighbors definitely <em> were </em> calling Clint ‘Hawk Guy,’ much to Peter’s bemusement. Others asked him about ‘the day job,’ but most of them seemed to know and just… not care. Peter tried to imagine this many people knowing that much about him, this many people calling him ‘Spidey’ when he was in civvies. He couldn’t imagine <em> one.</em></p><p>And then Lucky almost got into a fight with another dog, and Blind Al almost walked straight off the side of the roof (Peter had clung to her, yowling, for almost a full <em> minute </em> before anyone noticed and intervened), and so maybe this party wasn’t quite a hippie commune singing kumbaya. But it was still a community, and he was still having a blast. </p><p>Kate dropped in mid-way through the evening. Literally. She took a flying leap from a nearby building, landing with a roll into a splay. “Hey, Hawkeye!” she called up from the ground. “Did I lose ‘em?”</p><p>Clint gave her a flat look. “Who were you trying to lead to my apartment?”</p><p>“No one!” she chirped, bouncing to her feet and wrinkling her nose as she dusted off her lavender halter top and plum skinnies. Peter winced as he noticed a bruise across her back in the exact size and shape of a tire iron. “Everything’s fine, folks! Nothing to worry about!”</p><p>Peter glanced around. No one else at the potluck seemed to be worrying. This… kinda worried him.</p><p>“Anyway,” she was saying, “It’s not like they don’t know where you live already.”</p><p>Clint pinched his nose between his fingers. “Hawkeye…” he started. </p><p>“Okay, but those Draculas are up to something, and we both know it.”</p><p>“I’ll take care of it.”</p><p>She glared at him. “Well, I already took care of it. At least for tonight. Did you know something was going down?”</p><p>Clint’s head shot up. “No, wait, what? Tonight?”</p><p>“Tonight. Big drop. I couldn’t figure out <em> where, </em>but I pulled enough of ‘em off-course to throw a wrench in things.”</p><p>“I know where they are. I’ll deal with it.”</p><p>“With help?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at Clint’s half-hearted shrug. “You’re not the only person working this one. You need to ask around before you miss something big.”</p><p>Clint huffed. “I’ll think about it.”</p><p>Peter prickled at the tension. This was clearly a <em> same fight, same topic, different day </em> kinda thing.</p><p>The stand-off was broken by a sharp whistle, and then Kate was getting pulled over to arm wrestle a giant of a man; he seemed to be someone’s girlfriend’s cousin, he was visiting from out of town, and he had <em> no </em>idea what his big mouth had gotten him into. Clint ended up in a deep, philosophical debate about the season finale of Dog Cops. (Was Inspector Muffin <em>really </em>justified in her decision to kill that witness? Or was that just the story she told herself to curl up comfortably in her kennel at night?) By the time they ambled down from the empty roof, Clint and Kate were joking and teasing, easy, like nothing had happened.</p><p>“Can I crash here?” she asked, ducking under his arm and darting into the apartment.</p><p>Clint sighed the sigh of an argument already lost. “Sure, you can have the couch.”</p><p>Kate pouted. “I’m the lady. I’m taking the bed.”</p><p>“Nope. My house, my bed, my rules. You’re taking the couch.”</p><p> </p><p>Clint took the couch.</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, but you’re <em> not </em>getting the kitten.” </p><p> </p><p>Kate got the kitten. Peter (the kitten) seemed to be the only one surprised by this.</p><p> </p><p>He found that he wasn’t unhappy with the turn of events. Kate was soft, and she smelled nice, and she had long, silky hair that was fun to burrow in. As Peter curled into her neck, he had to admit that he might be just a teeny, tiny, <em> eensy </em>bit touch starved.</p><p>Still, he lay awake with his thoughts long after she drifted off, eyes open and staring at the shadows of the dark room. Eventually he crept up, careful not to wake her, and tip-toed down the wall along the stairs.</p><p>Clint was sprawled half on the couch, Lucky wedged in next to him. He was snoring a little, and drooling, and altogether lacking in anything that anyone might describe as ‘grace.’</p><p>Peter leapt up on silent feet, and — sure enough — there was enough room for three.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Clint woke with a start, somehow still smashed onto the couch. A goddamn miracle, with Lucky pinning him down like a sack of bricks, and the kitten pinning him down like a sack of, uh, smaller bricks. It gave a grumpy, sleepy purr and snuggled deeper into his elbow. Aw.</p><p>His arm was asleep and his knee hurt like hell but… he could get used to waking up like this.</p><p>It was weird, this cat situation. The little thing had <em> so much </em> personality. He hadn’t expected it to fill up his whole apartment like this. He <em> loved </em> Lucky, loved him with everything. And getting Lucky had changed his life in a whole lotta ways. All the ways. But this kitten, man. Something about it just felt <em> right. </em></p><p>“You’re probably the best cat I ever found in the garbage,” he said, scratching its dumb little head. The thing gave him a massively offended look, and wow, “You know, sometimes I could <em> swear </em>you understand me.”</p><p>He extricated himself with a yawn, stumbling towards the kitchen with the kitten on his shoulders. The apartment was empty, Hawkeye gone to the wind (leaving only a bed full of bobby pins to remember her by), but she'd scrubbed out the coffee pot and loaded the machine with grounds. Clint mumbled his gratitude to apprentices as he pressed the button, leaning against the counter as it brewed. The kitten sniffed around the counter as he fixed them all breakfast.</p><p>Cat food. He should probably buy real cat food today. And human food, too.</p><p>Coffee in hand, Clint worked through some lazy drills. His knee was moving better today, even after the night on the couch. His hands were less tight, his bruises less achey. His loose, happy body made something itch at the back of his brain. <em> Keep pushing. </em> It said. <em> Not good enough. Lazy. Useless. Work harder. </em>He breathed into it as he moved through the forms. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Slow like molasses. Steady like stone.</p><p><em> Later, </em> he bargained. <em> Gentle now, push hard later. </em></p><p>The kitten gleefully frolicking across his shoulders and over his back helped calm his mind, too.</p><p>Joints gooey and muscles warm, he grabbed more coffee and sat against the wall by the window. The kitten eyed him as he flipped through magazines. Watch and learn, kitty.</p><p>Decoupage was a dumb hobby, but he kinda loved it. There was something inexplicably satisfying about breaking a thing down to pieces and parts, then putting it back together into something that was, if not beautiful, interesting. Ads and opinions and hot tips all built into a narrative that even he never quite got until he was all the way done (at which point the blatant symbolism would jump up and pop him <em> right </em> on the chin).</p><p>He made little piles on the floor. Sorted them by type, and color, and gut feel. Flowers. Grayscale. Loaves of bread. Really good jawlines. Purple. Nostalgia. </p><p>He told the kitten about it, feeling a little dumb, but Lucky always liked to be shown what he was working on, and it seemed like the kitten did, too. It was actually really good at picking out patterns once he told it what he was looking for. He wondered if Liho was that smart. Man. There was <em>so much </em> that no one told him about cats.</p><p>Like right now.</p><p>The kitten was meowing at him, looking him in the eye, paw right on the face of a glossy magazine photo of… Hawkeye? The kitten pawed at the photo again.</p><p>"Pft," Clint said, carefully starting to cut out Captain America. "Arrow Guy? You could do better. That dude doesn't even have real superpowers." </p><p>The cat shot him a glare.</p><p>“Nah, who you want is — ” he dug around until he found the day's <em>Daily Bugle.</em> A seriously sweet shot of Spider-Man was splashed in full color across the front page, to the headline <em> Spider-Man: Missing Menace Leaves Us High And Dry! </em></p><p>“See? Your buddy.” He pet the cat, who pawed sadly at the page. “Man. He’s out doing his thing, he’s a menace. He takes a day or two off, they say he ditched. Can’t win.”</p><p>Inspiration striking, he grabbed some scissors. Absently, he felt the kitten press against his thigh as he worked. After a few minutes, he held out his results for Lucky and the kitten’s approval.</p><p>“What do you think?” he asked, as he flattened the cut-outs of Spider-Man and Hawkeye. Their poses actually worked really good for a big ole superhero fight. He’d drawn devil horns on Hawkeye, and Spider-Man was sporting an evil, twirly mustache. As the final touch, he triumphantly laid down the cut out words, <em> Like Cats And Dogs. </em></p><p>The three of them stared down at it.</p><p>It was really freaking cool.</p><p>And Clint could never put it on <em> anything. </em> “This is creepy, right?” he asked the kitten. The kitten blinked back at him. For once it, too, was speechless.  “Yeah, this is <em> totally </em>creepy.”</p><p> </p><p>Anyway, as luck would have it, he was rescued from owning up to the cringingly awkward evidence of his poor life choices by the arrival of an absolute army of Tracksuit Bros.</p><p>I mean. That probably wasn’t all that lucky.</p><p>Wait. Let’s go back a minute.</p><p> </p><p>See, a while back, these Russian mobsters had jacked up his rent and hurt his dog.</p><p>Well, okay, it was <em> their </em> dog, but it was a dog and they had hurt it, so it became <em> Clint’s </em>dog. And if there was one thing Clint couldn’t stand for, it was someone <em>hurting his dog. </em></p><p>A whole bunch of other stuff happened, and for the most part he’d chased the dumb Dracula-Bros off his turf, but they kept popping up like ants. If they weren’t in Bed Stuy, they were in Yonkers. Or, most recently, Queens.</p><p>He’d been tracking them for a while, following a lead on some drug dealings. He didn’t bother calling in the Avengers; this was chump change to the big leagues. SHIELD didn’t give a shit. Nat would just roll her eyes. The vigilante crews all had their own deal going on. </p><p>Technically, Queens was Spider-Man’s territory, and from the outside it seemed like he’d been keeping them in check. But Clint heard rumors that they were starting up a really big op, so he’d started doing some investigations of his own. And he’d been right. When he’d finally found his way into the right vent on the right level of the right warehouse, well… they were cooking up some <em> nasty </em> stuff. Bad for the neighborhood, bad for the city. Bad for everyone.</p><p>Someone needed to fix it.</p><p>Probably would have been friendly to loop Spidey in. He’d even been kinda sorta planning on doing it on Thursday. An olive branch, of sorts. The start to a beautiful team-up where everything was sunshine, rainbows, and ‘refraining from verbally abusing each other in staff meetings.’ Then he’d lost his cool, and the rest was history.</p><p> </p><p>At least now they were here, bringing the fight to him, and not fucking shit up for Spidey in Queens. </p><p>“Bro!” came the call through the window. “You futzed up this time, bro! We give you space, get out of hair, but you poke big nose where it doesn’t belong, bro.”</p><p>Cursing, he grabbed his bow. The cat screeched. “Don’t worry, Spider-Cat, I’ve got this covered.” He <em> really </em> hoped he was right.</p><p>Breathe into it. </p><p>Exhale. Aim. Release.</p><p>One down. Two down.</p><p>He jumped off the fire escape, taking out a few more of the Dracula fuckers on his way down. It was only as the pavement grew close that he remembered his fucked-up knee.</p><p> </p><p>Shit. This was gonna suck.</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I didn't have time to write anything for 'National Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Day' on the 8th, so you'll just have to make do with Clint's zucchini. (It's... it's his dick. The zucchini is his dick.)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. No More Mr. Nice Cat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Peter could live with creaming his panties for rude, arrogant, asshole Hawkeye. What he couldn't handle? This infatuation with Clint Barton.</p><p>(In which Peter starts to tire of the lap of luxury.)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>This was all Peter’s fault. </p><p>The Russians had a big drop scheduled for Saturday night. He <em> knew </em> this. He’d been planning on crashing it, had even prepared several quips (including ‘Bro, bro, bro your boat,’ which he was considering a new personal best). His only problem? He didn’t actually know where their warehouse <em> was. </em>It had been on his backlog. He was getting around to it, okay?</p><p>Was that how Kate had gotten hurt? And now Clint was dealing with them, and that wasn’t Clint’s job at all. Clint was an <em> Avenger. </em> He had actual <em> hero </em> stuff to do. He shouldn’t be boots on the ground, cleaning up Spider-Man’s mess.</p><p>This whole thing was Peter’s responsibility, and instead of fixing it he’d just been… here. Lazing around. Making biscuits on Clint’s abs. Eating <em> Spam. </em></p><p> </p><p>And now Clint had plummeted out the window, muttering, “Hate it when they speak Italian. Or is that Mandarin?” </p><p>It was clearly? Russian? Read the room, bro. </p><p>Anyway, he'd yeeted his unenhanced ass out the window, his fucking <em> ranged weapon </em> in hand, and was proceeding to get the ever-living shit beat out of him. </p><p>And all Peter could do was watch, wishing he could help.</p><p>The Russians leered as they circled Clint, darting in two or three at a time to exchange blows. “Bro tell little girlfriend, keep nose out of business, bro.” </p><p>Clint laughed, blood flying everyone. “Call her my girlfriend to her face, <em> bro, </em>see what happens.” </p><p>“Bro, we set up elsewhere. Leave you and dumb building and dumb bros alone. You follow us, bro, you get hurt. We expanding, bro. Big plans, no room for worst Avenger or for Spider-Bro.”</p><p>Okay, that was <em> it. </em>With a yowl, Peter ran down the wall and jumped into the fray. Which seemed very dramatic in his head, but in reality, nobody actually noticed the tiny kitten. Ouch. </p><p>They sure noticed him when he went for the eyes of the tracksuited goon coming up on Clint's six. He yelled and flailed, and Peter leapt off his face just as he swiped. The mook hit himself in the nose with the butt of his gun and — <em>guns, </em> they had guns, <em> shit, </em>he wished he had his webshooters so bad right now. </p><p>Things were looking hairy, but it turned out that the element of surprise was all he needed. These bros had clearly not trained to defend themselves against the ancient art of kitten kung fu. They were doing more damage to themselves and each other as they tried to get their hands on him, and from the corner of his eye, Peter could see Clint shamelessly taking advantage of the situation, going for eyes and kneecaps with a competence that would have made Peter roll over and show his belly if he wasn't mid-fight. </p><p>Look, that level of skill at manhandling another human body just made a guy <em> feel </em>things, okay?</p><p><em> That's right, bros, </em> he yowled. <em> Next time pick on someone your own size!  </em></p><p>His cheer exploded with the <em> bang </em> of a gunshot, horrifically painful to his tiny, enhanced ears. He squinted around as the fight stilled. One of the Russians was sitting on the ground, cradling his bleeding thigh. </p><p>“Bro!” he whimpered, face the picture of betrayal. </p><p>The brommander-in-chief knew when he was beat. With a twist of his head and a parting shot of, “Let you off easy this time, bro!” he scuttled to herd his limping and groaning flock down the street. </p><p>Peter watched them go, chest heaving and hackles raised. He startled as he was scooped up from behind, reflexively hissing as he twisted around with claws ready to strike — only to relax in a huff when he realized he was in Clint's hands.</p><p>“You shouldn't have done that, kitten,” Clint sighed. “I had it in control.” </p><p><em> You clearly didn't, </em>Peter huffed. </p><p>“Thanks for rescuing me, though. Is that… normal? Huh. Anyway. You're a cool cat.” </p><p><em> The coolest, </em>thought Peter with a giant yawn. Man. Fights like that really took it out of you, when you were just a small cat…</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>The Black Widow was in Clint’s apartment when he got back, and he flinched so hard he almost threw the cat at her as a defensive tactic.</p><p>He didn’t, because he didn’t have a death wish.</p><p>Instead — because he apparently had a death wish — he got snappy. “Thanks for the assist out there.”</p><p>“Thanks for calling me in,” she swatted back. “Your neighbors called. They were worried. I got here right as things were wrapping up.”</p><p>She gave him an odd look, and he realized she was looking at the conked-out kitten snuggled in his arms. </p><p>“You got a cat?” </p><p>“Found it in a dumpster,” Clint shrugged. “It's pretty cool.”</p><p>“Do you even know how to take care of a cat? What are you feeding it?”</p><p>“I’ve been figuring it out,” he said, fighting the urge to turn away a little, to hide the kitten from her view. “We’re figuring it out together.”</p><p>“And you didn’t think to call your good friend Natasha? The one who, just possibly, has a cat? Clint…”</p><p>“Look!” </p><p>Clint’s hackles were raised, and he knew he was going to regret this later, but he was just… he was tired, and he was beat to hell, and Nat and Kate and Cap and <em> everyone </em> just needed to <em> step off his dick, </em>okay?! </p><p>“Look, I might not be the best cat dad ever, but I’m trying! The cat’s fine, I’m fine. Sometimes you just have to figure out your own stuff, okay?”</p><p>Natasha didn’t respond, face closed off. The silence stretched on.</p><p><em> Interrogation technique, </em> he thought. <em> Humans hate silence. If you can hold the silence long enough, they’ll fill it with something… anything. I’m onto you, Romanoff. Just gotta wait… you… ou —   </em></p><p>“I’m sorry!” he blurted.</p><p>
  <em> Fuck! </em>
</p><p>“I’m sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m tired, and hurt, and I was being a dick.”</p><p>Nothing. </p><p>“C’mon, Nat,” he whined.</p><p>After a literal eternity, she raised an eyebrow. “Can I put your shoulder back in, or will that be too much for your big, strong, manly sense of self-reliance?”</p><p>He gave what he hoped was a charming smile. Probably wasn’t, what with the bruised lip and all the blood, but hey. He tried, okay? “Please, Nat?”</p><p>Everything felt better once she had him hauled up the stairs and into his bathroom. Sitting on a closed toilet lid while Nat tended to his wounds with the sweetest love and affection a Russian Child-Spy Summer Camp could teach? That just felt like old times.</p><p>Well.</p><p>When he said ‘everything felt better,’ he meant emotionally. Physically, he almost would have prefered another round with the tracksuit fuckers. As she came at him with an overly-aggressive alcohol wipe, he kinda figured she was doing it on purpose. Dumb fucks who got themselves beat on didn’t get Natasha Romanoff’s soft side.</p><p>“So,” she said, when he was finally fixed up. He eyed her position in the doorway, arms crossed, casually leaned against the frame. Three hundred pounds of bouncer muscle packed into a fashion model figure.</p><p>Well fuckity-fuck.</p><p><em> Rookie move, Barton. </em> Always <em> have an exit plan. Especially in your own damn home. </em></p><p>For a half-second he thought about beaning her with the first thing in his sight (a half-wrapped bar of hotel soap) — and then considered how bad it would taste when she crammed it down his throat. Still, compared to the talk ahead of him, a mouth full of soap seemed like it might be more fun.</p><p>“So,” she said. “The Russians.”</p><p>“The Russians.”</p><p>“The Russians, who you seem to consider your responsibility.”</p><p>“They <em> are </em>my responsibility!”</p><p>“Why? Because you happened to live in their building when shit got complicated? Because you stood up for yourself and your neighbors? Now they’re your archnemeses, and no one’s allowed to have a beef with them but you?” She huffed. “How dare those Russians cheat on you with other heroic idiots.”</p><p>“Well… when you put it like that, it sounds stupid.”</p><p>“Buckle up, Clint, because right now your life is a roller coaster of stupid. Why didn’t you ask me for help?”</p><p>“This is small beans. It’s not Avengers stuff.”</p><p>“And you’re an Avenger. So why is it your job?”</p><p>“Yeah, but I’m off-the-clock.”</p><p>“So am I. Did you ever, possibly, even vaguely stop to consider that maybe… just maybe… when she’s not being an Avenger… your dear, <em> sweet </em>friend Natalia” — that was a stretch, woman — “might have an in with the Russian mob?” </p><p>Well, when she put it like that, it <em> really </em>sounded stupid.</p><p>“I just…” He didn’t know. He didn’t know how to explain the drive to prove himself. The fear of showing any weakness. The feeling that…</p><p>“… you just feel like a ‘real Avenger’ should be able to take care of something like this on their own, and if you have to ask for help that proves that you’re not good enough to be on the team?”</p><p>Okay, she needed to <em>stop </em> with the fucking head shrinking! He was just opening his mouth to say something he was <em> really </em>going to regret, when —  </p><p>“Do you remember how pissed you were after the thing with Yelena? When I went off to deal with it alone?”</p><p>“You mean when you snuck off like a sick cat to die alone under a porch somewhere, as is the way of your people?” God, yeah, he’d been <em> furious. </em>By the time they’d found her, it was almost too late. Like, it wasn’t Nat’s fault that the Red Room had installed her and her weird little devil-sister with matching ticking time-bombs. </p><p>“Hmm,” she said, and didn’t say anything else.</p><p>Hmm?</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>“Fine,” he said. “Fine, I get it. I’m sorry. You can come play with the Draculas with me.”</p><p>Finally… <em> finally, </em>he got a hint of a smile. “See? Now we’re talking business. You think I care if you go off and get killed? No. But it’s cruel and unusual to deprive me the pleasure of witnessing it first hand.”</p><p>“Promise to avenge my horrible, excruciating death. Perhaps you can even form a team for that express purpose…”</p><p>“…and we’ll call it…” she picked up where he left off, voice solemn, “…we’ll call it… the Get-Eveners.”</p><p>“Nailed it,” he grinned, shoulders finally coming down from around his ears. He looked around and winced. “Can we, uh, leave my bathroom now, please?”</p><p>She frowned a little, as if just now remembering that she still had him corralled in his own bathroom like a cat in heat. “Right. Right, yes, let’s do that.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Speaking of working the case,” she said, chewing with her mouth open and spewing bits of his extra-secret, hidden stash of Oreos. He'd tried to steal one back and almost lost a finger. “Any chance you’ve heard from Spider-Man?”</p><p>“No.” Clint made a face as he flicked a distressingly moist chunk of cookie off his cheek. “Why does everyone want to talk to me about Spider-Man?”</p><p>She shrugged. “Long shot. But with both of you on those <em> titushky </em> trash I was hoping maybe you'd crossed paths. He was supposed to meet up with Stark yesterday. Never showed, hasn’t answered his phone.”</p><p>“Well. He’s flaky, right?” Despite his easy words, Clint’s stomach squirmed. He felt like he was <em> missing </em>something.</p><p>“He <em> is </em> very flaky. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s dropped off the grid.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Clint said, slowly. “But… also, that means if something happened to him, we’d never know.” Nat was too busy peeling the guts out of her cookies to look worried. She was piling the white creme in a neat tower for some unknown and probably-nefarious purpose. “Nat, if he —  If I —  I was a dumbass on Thursday. If he ran off and got hurt after I chewed him out…”</p><p>“Then that would still be on him, not on you.” She must have felt extra sorry for him, because she generously granted him an Oreo. “He’s a big kid, and if he did something reckless it’s because he’s reckless, not because you were an utter shithead to him.”</p><p>“I guess…”</p><p>“Although you were, for the record.”</p><p>Clint sighed. This game, again.</p><p>“An utter shithead,” she continued.</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>“Seriously.”</p><p>“Uh huh.”</p><p>“So out of line.”</p><p>“Yeah, thanks, I get it. And I’ll make it up to him, if he’s not dead in a gutter somewhere. Will you —?”</p><p>“Already on it. Stark asked me to find him. Apparently a few of the agents who were on the ground on Thursday experienced some… unexpected side effects.”</p><p>“Unexpected?”</p><p>“Let’s just say Agent Harris is no less odious as an axolotl. But Agent Garcia looks absolutely cute as a button with bunny ears and a tail.”</p><p>Clint barked out a laugh. “With our luck, Spidey got turned into an actual spider. Probably smashed across today’s issue of the <em> Bugle.” </em></p><p>She smirked. “Truly, a show of poetic justice. I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for spider guts. I was actually out asking around when I got whistled in here.”</p><p>“Want help? I should be out there.”</p><p>She gave him a pointed once-over.</p><p>“It’s fine! I’m not too hurt to do a little walkabout, at least. ”</p><p>“Clint,” she said. “Didn’t we <em> just </em>talk about how fighting someone doesn’t make them your responsibility?” </p><p>Wow.</p><p>You come into a man’s own home, eat his name brand cookies, throw around blatant personal attacks like that… Well, he didn’t have to roll over and take it. He was kicking her out, and he was reclaiming his Oreos. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Natasha left when she was good and ready, leaving him with a few new bruises and a package full of licked-clean cookie halves.</p><p>He still ate them. Obviously.</p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p>Peter hadn’t woken up when Clint had tucked him under the covers en route to his loving bathroom interrogation. He didn’t wake up when Clint stumbled up the stairs and toppled face-first into bed, and he didn’t wake when Clint, in a dead sleep, fumbled out and pulled him in close.</p><p>He woke, instead, at dawn, to murmured words in a tone so concerned it made him bolt upright from a dead sleep. Clint looked at him, startled, flip phone cradled against his shoulder as he balanced on one foot, hopping his way into…</p><p>Holy heck, were those <em> leather </em> pants? Had Peter been so distracted by Hawkeye’s bare shoulders and his overly low sweats that he’d completely forgotten about the <em> skin-tight leather pants? </em> Like, they were so tight he had to shimmy around to get into them, and then, in case they somehow weren’t tight enough, he was making <em> extra </em>sure that his ass wasn’t going anywhere by strapping himself in with enough buckles and zippers and pouches to stock a BDSM store. </p><p>Just… <em> how </em>had it taken Peter so long to realize how gay he was for this dude? Seriously? </p><p>“Yeah, I know the place. Be there soon.” Clint snapped the phone shut, shoving his foot into a boot without bothering to tie it. He knelt by the bed to give Peter and Lucky a pat.</p><p>“Hey, buds,” he said. “Don’t worry, no aliens. It’s just, uh…” He trailed off. </p><p>Lucky whined quietly, and Peter’s fur stood on end. Clint looked like he was about to <em> cry. </em>And he could barely move, face bruised as hell from yesterday’s fight, joints stiff as he knelt down. What was so important that he needed to suit up now, today?</p><p>Oh my god.</p><p>Was someone hurt?</p><p>What if it was Black Widow? Or Stark? Or —</p><p>“It’s Spider-Man,” said Clint, scrubbing at his eyes. “He’s been missing, and Nat found his suit all torn up in an alley, and I just…” He had to stop to take a deep breath. Peter’s heart hurt. “Look. Nat said if he ran off and did dumb shit because I yelled at him it wasn’t my fault. But if he did —  I just wouldn’t be able to —  We just gotta find him.”</p><p><em> She’s right, though, </em> Peter thought. <em> It’s not like I need external motivation to do dumb shit. </em></p><p>And then, <em> Wait, when did he and Widow talk about me? </em></p><p>Clint gave a watery smile and ran his thumb up Peter’s forehead, smoothing back the fur. “No worries, little kitty. Hawkeye to the rescue, off to find your namesake so you can finally meet him. And claw him a little for scaring the shit out of me.”</p><p>Yeah, no, Peter was on board with this plan, because right now he thought that Spider-Man was just about the worst kind of douchebag. Totally deserving of sharp kitten claws.</p><p>Clint took a deep breath as he stood up, and then it was the damndest thing, because his face did a thing and suddenly Peter was looking at the Hawkeye he knew and… didn’t really love. It was like he’d pulled on a disguise as durable as Spider-Man’s mask. Peter had to fight the urge to hiss.</p><p>Huh. Wow. He’d been spending so much time with Clint, he’d kinda forgotten how much he <em> hated </em>Hawkeye.</p><p>“Time to clock in at the hero factory,” Hawkeye said wryly, and now that he was looking for it, Peter saw just a little of Clint twinkling through that irritable, stoic mask.</p><p>The Mighty Hawkeye turned on his heel and tripped a little on his untied bootlace.</p><p>Okay, maybe more than a little.</p><p>After all of this, Spider-Man might, just maybe, actually <em> like </em> Hawkeye.</p><p>And then Clint was gone, and Peter didn’t know quite what to do with himself.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Well, aside from hating himself. Which he was doing. Desperately.</p><p><em> That </em> part was even easier than usual.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The thing was, Peter was in trouble. </p><p>See, he’d come around to the fact that he liked Clint’s body, found him attractive. It had only taken one or two shirtless saunters to have to face up to that knowledge real quick. </p><p>And that was fine. Peter, like most queer guys his age, had a tendency to go for dumb assholes. This was probably because most guys his age — including, sometimes, him — were dumb assholes. College, ya know? The time in a young gay’s life when they figure out how to interact with a human being, as another human being, without breaking one or both humans in the process. So, yeah, he’d fallen for his share of frat bros (and stoner bros… and philosophy-major bros), and he felt zero shame about falling into bed with a pretty face that he didn’t particularly want to see the next morning over breakfast.</p><p>No, he could have hatefucked Hawkeye in a heartbeat. Any out-of-the-way corner of the tower, suits pulled down just enough for access, teeth clacking in kisses that were more about violence than romance. Mask pulled half up, just enough that Hawkeye could shove him against the wall, push him down, feed that thick cock down his throat until he choked on it. That desire, Peter could handle. Peter could live with creaming his panties for rude, arrogant, asshole Hawkeye.</p><p>What Peter couldn’t handle was <em> Clint. </em> </p><p>Clint, who’d taken home a tiny little garbage cat and treated it like it was precious and done everything in his power to take care of it, despite not knowing a single, solitary thing about cats. Clint, with his one-eyed dog taking care of him, just as much as he took care of it. Clint, with his neighbors and his building and his unorthodox but oddly-effective repair skills. Clint, with his newspaper clippings, and his sharpies, and the clever little art pieces that seemed to be for him, and him alone. </p><p>Clint, who’d been gutted at the idea that something had happened to Spider-Man, and that it might have been his fault.</p><p>Peter was okay with lusting after Hawkeye. But he wasn’t sure he could handle this infatuation with Clint Barton. </p><p>Because the thing about Clint Barton? He didn’t even know who Peter was. Not just right now, as a kitten (although that was a whole other bag of awkward). Clint didn’t know the first thing about <em> Spider-Man, </em> and when this was all sorted out, Peter would be stuck with this massive, painful crush, but to Clint… he’d be a stranger. Nothing more than a nameless mask. An irritation in team meetings. His heart hurt as he thought about it. Couldn’t he just move into this beautiful apartment and be a lazy kitten forever?</p><p>He couldn’t. He couldn’t live with himself, for starters. He’d already left his city without Spider-Man for too long. And now the Avengers were wasting resources looking for him, and everyone was worried… He was being a selfish piece of shit. It was time to stop doing what he was finally realizing he’d been doing this entire time — hiding.</p><p>And even if <em> no one </em>had been relying on him, even if all his responsibilities disappeared with the snap of a finger… he couldn’t live with Clint. Not like this. He couldn’t handle the slow heartbreak of being so close to what he wanted, and never able to reach it.</p><p>Kitten time was over.</p><p>It was time to be a real boy again.</p><p>If he couldn’t get Clint’s attention by tonight, he’d leave and find a way to the Tower himself. It was what he should have done days ago. It would be easier if Clint took him, but he didn’t <em>need </em>an escort. Since when did <em>Spider-Man</em> need someone else’s help to get the job done? Since when did he give up just because he failed the first time?</p><p>He prowled with his thoughts, wasting the day away, circling the perimeter while Lucky kept a single, watchful eye on the exits. At some point he looked up to realize that his paws had taken him to Clint’s closet. Clothes were strewn everywhere, cast carelessly aside in his hurry to pull on his uniform. Tip-toeing carefully around the piles of fabric, Peter made his way to the back corner of the closet, where a bundle of purple had caught his attention.</p><p>It was Clint’s hoodie. The one he’d been wearing in that awful meeting. The one he’d been using as a shield for his injuries, keeping up the appearance of being cool and casual while his fingers bled and his contusions swelled.</p><p>Peter nudged it aside with his head, burrowing his way under the thick fleece. It smelled of sweat and soot, burnt coffee and gunpowder. It was a confusing combination — a mix of smells that meant ‘Clint,’ and smells that meant ‘Hawkeye’ — and Peter didn’t know quite how to feel about that, so instead he just curled up and fell asleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When Peter woke, it was full dark. He emerged, yawning, from the closet, to find Clint curled up in the bed, Lucky at his back.</p><p>Peter jumped up, though he barely made the leap for the stone that caught in his throat. With a sigh, he butted his head hard into Clint’s ribs.</p><p>“Wha — ?” Clint fumbled in the dark. His hand found Peter, and Peter relaxed despite himself. He sighed as he collected himself for another attempt. He had to let Clint know. He <em> had </em> to. Oh, this was going to <em> hurt, </em>though.</p><p>He raised a paw to strike, poised to get Clint awake and paying attention to him, whatever it took. Clint’s voice was faint, slurred with sleep. “Oh, ‘s justa kitty. Thought… thought maybe you got lost, too.”</p><p>Peter slowly let his paw drop.</p><p>One last night.</p><p>One last night, and he’d leave in the morning.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Peter woke up slow, not a care in the world. Life felt <em>good. </em>He stretched luxuriously.</p><p>The bed felt smaller than he was used to.</p><p>He stretched a paw out to bat at the edge of the mattress.</p><p>No, not a paw.</p><p>A hand.</p><p>He had a <em> hand. </em></p><p>He was human again. He was human, and he was— </p><p>Oh, god.</p><p>He was human, and he was naked in Hawkeye’s bed.</p><p>He cracked open an eye and immediately regretted it. His head spun with all the detail in his peripheral vision. How did humans <em> live </em>like this? His head twitched from side to side as everything tried to catch his focus all at once.</p><p>He scrunched his eyes tight, willing himself to become small and furry.</p><p>It didn't happen. Worth a try. </p><p>Okay.</p><p>Next steps.</p><p>Clint could <em> not </em> wake up to him like this. Maybe he could stealth his way out. Steal some clothes, get the heck out of dodge, get to a phone or laptop and let Stark know he was okay.</p><p>“Uhhhh…” he heard.</p><p>Oh, <em> no. </em></p><p>Peter opened his eyes slowly, and gave what he hoped was a charming smile.</p><p>“Okay,” he rasped, voice awkward from disuse. “So, I know this looks bad…”</p><p>
  
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Mew Beginnings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>It wasn’t too late to fling himself out the window. He could quit the Avengers, quit New York, move to Alaska and just use Clint’s giant, comfy sweatshirt as a tent while he lived off the land.</p><p>(In which frisky kitties gets cock-blocked, and a long-overdue conversation is had.)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gement/pseuds/Gement">Gement</a> (your friendly neightborhood resource for all the filthiest SuperBat smut) for the assist on the lip-reading syntax for this one &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Waking up curled around another warm body was always nice, but Clint had to admit… he had a few questions.</p><p><em>“</em><em>so I know </em> <b><em>this looks bad …”</em> </b></p><p>Clint knew the shape of that particular phrase pretty damn well, even on the unfamiliar (and unfairly attractive) mouth of a one-night stand. Wait. He hadn’t brought anyone home last night, had he? He was pretty sure he hadn’t.</p><p>Like, eighty percent sure?</p><p>Clint blinked, and his mouth opened before he could stop it. “It doesn't look so bad from here.”</p><p>The stranger blushed, and whoa, that flush of pink went all the way down his chest, and it would be a bad idea to… he should really make sure this wasn’t a trap before…</p><p>Their faces were getting closer…</p><p>Clint jerked back. “Okay. Uh. Ridiculously hot person who is, uh, naked in my bed. Which, I am not complaining about. Even though I probably should be. But you’re. Wow. You’re <em> very naked.” </em></p><p>The stranger burrowed into the covers, blush only growing. Clint sighed.</p><p>“Kid, I can feel you talking, but I can’t understand you unless you face me.”</p><p><b> <em>“!!!”</em></b> He popped back up, clutching the sheet in front of himself. <em> “right … </em><em><b>sorry </b> (a)bout </em> <b> <em>that”</em></b></p><p>“Um,” said Clint. This person had nice lips. Really nice. He realized he was staring in a way that was probably starting to get very, <em>very</em> awkward.</p><p>He needed to stare to read them? Obviously.</p><p><b><em>“or”</em></b>— still staring, still creepy<em> — </em><b><em>“instead of </em> </b> <em> an explain(nation?) we could(?) </em> <b> <em>stay in bed”</em> </b></p><p>“Yeah,” sighed Clint, reaching in search of smooth, available skin. “Wait, no. Nope. I promised Kate that if I ever woke up with a ridiculously hot naked dude in my bed again, I would find out why it was there <em> before </em> I put my mouth on it.”</p><p>He got an extremely confused head-tilt for that one. Okay, fair, that was oddly specific.</p><p>Look, sometimes Clint made bad sexual decisions, okay? To his credit, though…</p><p>Yeah, no, there was no excuse. Just bad sexual decisions.</p><p>Not this time. This time he was going to make a good sexual decision. Well. A good decision to not have sex. So, a good decision that kinda sucked. A vivid image of Kate and Natasha wielding matching spray bottles danced across his mind, and wow, it was time to get the fuck out of this bed before he got himself into even more trouble. The stranger yelped, flinging a hand across him and oh, bare hand on bare abs, yes, very good, this was very nice. Clint relaxed for all of two seconds, then squeaked, “Nope!” and tried to roll out of bed. Instead, he accidentally rolled the stranger on top of him.</p><p>Clint wasn’t sure who started the kiss, just that this mystery person was really good at kissing. Like, <em> really </em>good. He kissed like he wanted to stick his entire head in Clint’s mouth like a cat, and, whoa, this was not the time to be thinking about his kitten. Clint ran his hands down the stranger’s slim back to wrap around his muscular waist, god, he was so <em>tiny. </em>And he was clearly here for everything about this, if the hard dick pressing against Clint’s thigh had anything to say about it.</p><p>Maybe Clint could just… keep him.</p><p>(Kate. Nat. Spray bottles.)</p><p>“W-wait,” said Clint. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we should talk.”</p><p><b> <em>“nooooooo</em>”</b> Clint could almost hear the whisper-whine. Or maybe that was just the sound his own dick was making right now.</p><p>Clint braced himself. They weren’t going to get anywhere if they stayed in bed.</p><p>Well, they were going to get places, but they weren’t going to get any closer to figuring this out. Okay. Getting out of bed. Getting out of — “Ack!”</p><p>As he moved away, the stranger’s fingers had tightened, rolling him right back into place. Okay, so. This guy was stronger than he looked. Good to know. The teeny, tiny part of Clint that wasn’t thinking with his dick found this a teeny, tiny bit concerning. </p><p>“Let me go!” Clint yelped.</p><p>
  <b> <em>“... can’t!”</em> </b>
</p><p>“What do you mean you can’t??”</p><p>The stranger peeled back his fingertips, showing that, even though he was stuck, he wasn’t gripping. Clint gingerly lifted the hand by the wrist, watching his own skin pull and stretch after it. It was like he was stuck. Or glued, maybe?</p><p>So this guy was some kind of mutant.</p><p>Some kind of <em>sticky </em>mutant.</p><p>“…Spider-Man?” he asked. The stranger (Spidey?!) nodded, looking sick. “They found the suit… behind the dumpster where I found the…” Clint’s eyes widened. <em>“Kitten?” </em></p><p><b><em>“Okay,</em> </b> <em> bu</em><b><em>t I</em> </b> <em> can </em> <b> <em>explain”</em> </b></p><p>“Okay?” Clint said.</p><p>He waited. A muscle in Spidey's jaw clenched.</p><p><em>“... </em><em>I</em><b><em> was </em></b> <em> open(hoping?) y</em><b><em>ou </em> </b> <em> … (wooden) … </em> <b> <em>take me </em> </b> <em> upon(?) (that?)</em><em>”  </em></p><p>“Okay. Uh. Let’s start with, why are you stuck to me?”</p><p><b><em>“because I’m stressed (!!)</em></b><em>” — </em>aw, stress rambling, no — <em>“…</em> <em>maybe(?) (yukon?)</em><b><em> find</em></b><em> wayto(?) </em><b><em>relax me</em></b><em> … might(?) </em><b><em>end up</em></b><em> (kitten?!) </em><b><em>you </em></b><em>even stickier(?) … (definitely a swear) …</em> <em>still </em><b><em>talking</em></b><em> … (?) … need … (out of?) </em><b><em>bed</em></b><em> … (?) … myself in(?) deeper(?) … (?????)”</em></p><p>Spidey face planted into the bed like it was his new home. Clint was pretty sure he was screaming into the pillow.</p><p>Damn. Sure, this was weird as hell, and sure, Clint had a <em> lot </em>of questions, but… </p><p>Poor lil dude.</p><p>Without thinking, Clint reached out to scratch his head. The kid relaxed in a huffy purr, hand unsticking. He was… vibrating? Clint tentatively moved his hand, resting it between Spidey's shoulder blades. </p><p>Yup. <em> Definitely </em>vibrating.</p><p>Was that normal? Clint didn’t know too much about Spider-Man.</p><p>Spidey’s head popped up.</p><p>
  <strong> <em>“‽”</em> </strong>
</p><p>Clint swallowed. “I think you just — ”</p><p>So. Not a normal Spider-Man thing, then. Spidey’s chest was still rumbling, and Clint found his dumb fingers had accidentally moved up to massage the tense muscles in that slim, biteable neck.</p><p>This was a problem, was what this was.</p><p>“Okay,” Clint sighed. Spidey’s shoulders slumped mournfully. “Yup, sorry. Sorry to both of us.”</p><p>He gave Spidey a shove that sent him tipping over sideways and scrambled out of bed before the kid could throw any more sex at him. Spidey popped up to sitting, rumpled and offended. Yup. Still very, very naked. Clint dove for his closet. “You need clothes. I need clothes. Everyone just needs <em> more clothes.” </em> </p><p>He paused at the top of the stairs, and wow, that was a mistake. Spidey was still staring up at him, eyes wide. Had Clint ever thought it was <em>funny </em>that Spidey was shorter than him? Because right now he was having some thoughts that were less about making fun and more about crawling right back into bed and finding out exactly how small that body felt under his.</p><p>“I’ll — ” he croaked. “I’ll just, uh, go make coffee.” He took one step back towards the bed, then literally flung himself down the stairs in self-defense.</p><p>It was only in the split-second before he landed on the ground floor that he remembered his dumb knee.</p><p>(Ow.)</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>Peter descended the stairs on silent toes, careful not to trip on the oversized sweats pooling around his ankles. Clint had ended up tossing him the soot-stained purple hoodie and he hugged it tight around himself, once again finding an odd and confusing comfort in the cloying residue of ash and coffee and adrenaline.</p><p>Clint swallowed hard, deer in the headlights, when Peter tentatively held out his hearing aids. He offered a quiet, <em>'thanks,</em>' directed somewhere around Peter's right shoulder, then gestured Peter towards the couch, dragging over one of the kitchen stools for himself. He opened his mouth, started to say something, then swore. “Coffee! Right. Coffee.”</p><p>Five minutes later, Peter warmed his hands around a cup of freshly-brewed battery acid. He liked it — it tasted like late nights on rooftops and slow, lazy weekend mornings with Aunt May. He’d been granted the one surviving purple Hawkeye mug, and he just felt very cozy wearing Clint’s clothes, drinking out of Clint’s favorite mug. He cleared his throat.</p><p>“This place is, um, really purple.”</p><p>Smooth, Parker.</p><p>“Yeah, uh. I like purple.”</p><p>Cool. Great. Off to a great start. </p><p>“Thanks,” he whispered into his cup, then remembered himself and brought his face towards Clint. “Thanks. Um, for the coffee. It’s way better now than it was when I was a kitten.”</p><p>And, yup, the big, furry, tabby-striped elephant was back in the room. Peter hid his face back in the purple mug.</p><p>It wasn’t too late to fling himself out the window. He could quit the Avengers, quit New York, move to Alaska and just use Clint’s giant, comfy sweatshirt as a tent while he lived off the land. Clint cleared his throat. Peter made deep, meaningful eye contact with his coffee.</p><p>“So,” Clint said, voice tight. “I have literally no idea how to start.”</p><p>“I’m really sorry,” Peter whispered. “You should —you should call the Avengers.”</p><p>Clint’s throat clicked. “Do you want me to call the Avengers?”</p><p>Peter shook his head frantically. “I would really, really like to pretend that this never happened.”</p><p>“Okay. Um. Can you tell me what happened? And then we’ll, uh, figure the rest out.”</p><p>“Uh. Yeah.” Peter took another sip of coffee, taking a long moment to collect his thoughts. “I guess Loki’s magic must have turned me into a kitten. I assume. I, um, don't know too much about magic. I was swinging home, and I got really dizzy, and then I woke up in an alley like… like this. And then you found me and brought me here. That’s… pretty much it.”</p><p>“So… when you were a kitten, you didn’t know that you were you? Or that I was me?”</p><p>“Um.” said Peter.</p><p>Clint blinked at him. “You… <em>did </em> know?”</p><p>“I’m really sorry!” Peter blurted. “I kinda tried to communicate — to spell out a note or something — but nothing I tried worked. And I know I should have tried harder but it was just… it was so nice here, and I just kept putting it off, and then last night I was gonna, but you were so upset, and… I’m sorry. I’ll…” He put his head in his hands. “This was so inappropriate.”</p><p>“Wait,” said Clint. “You… it… you stayed because you liked it here?”</p><p>Peter nodded. “It was just really nice having a break. Not having responsibilities. Catching up on sleep. And you're really cool, and you’re a lot nicer to me when I'm a kitten. Wait. Sorry. Wow.”</p><p>
  <em>Please stop, mouth. Please stop talking.</em>
</p><p>Clint put his chin on his hand. “That does sound pretty great.” He went a little hazy, then his eyes snapped back to Peter’s face. “Spidey? You okay?”</p><p><em> Fine, </em> thought Peter. <em> Dandy. </em> His chest was tight, and he forced himself to slow down his breathing, uncomfortably aware of Clint’s scrutiny. “Just… realized how much school I missed… and I can’t just tell them I was a <em> kitten. </em>Crap, do you know if they found my phone with my suit? I’m gonna have to — m-maybe they’ll let me — ” Another deep breath.</p><p>
  <em>You got this, Spider-Man. Rub some dirt on it, walk it off. </em>
</p><p>He cracked his eyes open and forced a watery grin. “Hey, at least I can’t get re-fired from my job, right? Been there, done that, got the t-shirt to add to my embarrassingly extensive collection.”</p><p>Clint’s brow crinkled. “Hold up. You lost your job?”</p><p>Peter shrugged. “Well… yeah. I no-show, no-called. Can’t exactly call in ‘wizards’ to work. Bosses, uh, bosses don’t like that, turns out. Crazy, right?” Clint was staring at him, and Peter felt his hackles rise. “I’m not proud of it, okay? I know you think I’m just some dumb kid, but I’m smart enough to know it’s not a good look to get fired every other month.”</p><p>Clint spoke slowly. “You lost your job… because you didn’t show up… because of Thursday’s fight.” Peter nodded, wrapping his arms around himself. Duh. Keep up. “And — this has happened before?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Peter shrugged stiffly. “One time I scored a library work-study that was pretty great. They didn’t care when I showed up as long as shit got done. I used to go in after patrol at, like, 3am to shelve books. Take a nap in the stacks and then go to class. That was a good quarter. Everything else… I don’t know, one month before everything goes to shit? Two, if I’m lucky?” Yeah, no, Peter needed to just <em>stop talking.</em> “It’s fine! I’ll just get another job. Something I won’t flake out on. Maybe as a window washer, you think I got a shot? They’ll call me the Night Washer.”</p><p>Clint didn’t laugh. “Does Cap know you’re getting fired from jobs because of Avengers calls? Or that you’re missing class?”</p><p>“It’s no big deal,” Peter said, examining a frayed spot on the sweatshirt. “It’s just part of the gig. Great power, bad at responsibility, etcetera. I’m sorry I got upset just now. It’s just been a lot.”</p><p>“Spidey.” Clint’s voice was soft.</p><p><em> Stop it, </em> Peter thought. <em> Stop pitying me. </em></p><p>“Nobody’s asking you to wreck your life like this. Cap doesn’t want this. <em> Nobody </em>wants this.”</p><p>Peter’s eyes snapped up. “Do you really want me off the team that bad?”</p><p>“No!” Clint stood abruptly and, whoa, <em> tall. </em> He ran a hand through his hair and sat back down. “No.” He leaned in. Peter glanced away. “I want you on the team for a long time. I want —  you’re the next generation. You’re the one who takes over after we’re too broken and busted up to keep going. But you can’t do that if you’re broken and busted up before you even get going. That’s why I keep pushing Cap to make you train. Not because you’re not as good as us. Because you need to be <em> better </em> than us.”</p><p>“Look, I’m not — ” Peter’s voice cracked. “I <em> know </em> I’m not good enough. I know I keep screwing up. I need to be better, but I don’t know <em> how. </em> I’d love to train. Maybe, uh, maybe not with you, specifically. But training with Captain America? With Black Widow? Working on my tech with Tony, and with Dr. Banner? That’s the dream! But every minute of every single day is double booked. So if you’re gonna sit there and say I can’t be Spider-Man if I don’t drop everything to train” — his voice wavered but he forced his chin up — “then fuck you. I <em> made </em> Spider-Man.”</p><p>“Spidey. I’m not — that’s not what I’m trying to — why didn’t you ask for help, man?”</p><p>“I don’t want special treatment!”</p><p>Clint nodded thoughtfully.</p><p>“You want to make your own way. Don’t want charity. I feel that.” He eyed Peter for a long moment, then pulled out a hearing aid, held it out. “Are these special treatment?”</p><p>“Of course not!” How petty did Clint think he was? Shame curled in his stomach, and his eyes sank to the bottom of his coffee cup. He wondered if he could read the grounds like tea leaves. Preferably in the form of a map that would show him the way out of this conversation.</p><p>“That's right,” said Clint, putting his ears back in. “They’re not. They’re <em>accommodations. </em> I need certain things to be an Avenger, things that other people don’t need.” He sighed. “I’m not saying you get a key to the city. But you’re putting your life on the line every damn day to keep this city safe, and you deserve the shit that'll let you keep doing that.”</p><p>“I don’t…” Peter whispered. “It’s not that easy.”</p><p>“Course it isn’t,” Clint said. “Life ain’t fair.” Peter’s head darted up. “There isn’t a perfect fix, and I’m not… I’m not smart like you are. Not near smart enough to figure this out. You’re way smarter than me, and you haven’t been able to figure it out. But Tony’s a genius. Steve’s the ‘man with the plan.’ Banner’s street stupid, but he gets there. You got a <em> team,</em> man. Just… talk to them, okay?”</p><p>Peter winced. “Tony’s gonna… <em> Cap’s </em>gonna…” He trailed off, making a face.</p><p>“Oh yeah. Everyone’s gonna want to adopt you like the little garbage stray you are. They’ll all feel guilty as hell that they didn’t notice. Tony’s gonna flip his lid and try to buy you half of New York. Nat'll break into your place to sneak in groceries, and believe me, man, you will not be able to stop her. I’ve tried to lock her out of this place so many damn times it’s not even funny. Cap’s gonna give you that face… you know the face.”</p><p>Ugh. <em>The face.</em> The face that said that Steve Rogers was<em> so touched </em>that you would trust him with your problems, but also that you had let him (and everyone) down by not trusting him with them sooner. </p><p>“Yeah,” said Clint. “You know the face. Like he’s got room to talk. You wanna know what Cap did first thing?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Uh…” Clint said. “Shit, I shouldn’t…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Eh, fuck it. You didn’t hear it from me. Okay, so Cap got all unfroze, right? And he had a ton of backpay, like, a <em> ton. </em> And so they give him a debit card and tell him he’s set, but they didn’t really show him how to check his balance. Or explain the current cost of goods and services. Or, like, anything. So Cap’s got this tiny little card, all ‘wow, I only have the one ration card, I’ll be careful,’ and he doesn’t think he’s got the money to buy a fifty dollar can of beans. At least in his way of understanding the world. Ya get me?”</p><p>Peter nodded, invested. Clint leaned in.</p><p>“So Cap. Man with the Plan. Survivor of the Great Depression. You know what he does? He manages to track down the local food bank.”</p><p>Peter’s hand flew to cover his mouth. <em> Oh. Oh no. </em></p><p>“Oh yeah. He was hitting up the food bank for <em>two weeks </em>before his SHIELD handler figured it out and stopped him. And then he felt so bad, they had to stop him from donating, like, half of his money to that one food bank.”</p><p>Peter was horrified. He was delighted. He needed Clint to tell him every single Avengers story, ever.</p><p>“Point is,” Clint said, “Don’t let Cap give you shit for trying to figure your own stuff out, or forgetting you could ask for help. None of us are what you’d call team players, not by nature. We’re solo cats, so to speak. And I’m not gonna sit here an’ feed you bullshit — if you don’t want Tony to steamroll over you with a steamroller made of hundred dollar bills, it’s gonna be a fight. But,” he met Peter’s eye, “Spider-Man doesn’t run away from a fight. Right?”</p><p>Peter nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll talk to them about it. No promises, though.”</p><p>Clint was silent, jaw working. Then, “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Peter swallowed. “You don’t need to…”</p><p>“I do. I was an asshole, and I was out of line. And I owe you an apology for that.” Clint scrubbed at a crusted-over cut on his cheek. “I was dumb when I was your age. Really fucking dumb. Like, got people hurt, got myself thrown in jail dumb. So if I treated you like a dumb kid, well… I saw how good you were, and saw how much better you could be, and I didn't see you fighting for it… and it pissed me off. And that's my own dumb bullshit, not yours.”</p><p>Peter nodded slowly. “I guess I’m sorry, too.”</p><p>Clint raised a brow. “Really?”</p><p>"Well. Okay, no. You were a dick. But I wasn’t… I’m not a good team player. I'm not good at trusting people. I’ll try to be better.”</p><p>“You’ve got some good shit going on. Maybe start by coming up to the training floor? Nothin' builds trust like Nat choking you out with her thighs, gotta say.”</p><p>Um, what? Okay, yes, training was sounding better and better.</p><p>“Will you teach me how to shoot arrows?”</p><p>“Will you make me, like, web arrows?”</p><p>“I don’t know what that means, but yes.” Peter shot Clint a sly grin. “Anything else you think you can teach me, Hawkeye?” </p><p>Clint's face froze. “Uhhhh.”</p><p>Ooooh, Peter wished he could shove those words right back down his throat. Kind of like he wished he could shove — <em>nope.</em> He'd made enough of an embarrassment of himself already this morning, thank you very much. He ducked his head, covering his face with his paw. His, uh, hand. Not his paw. Fuck. His face burned.</p><p>He heard a little sound, like a <em> pat pat. </em> He chanced a peek. “Aw, kitten, no, it’s okay,” said Clint. He patted his leg again. <em> Pat pat. </em></p><p>Peter stared at Clint. Clint stared at Peter.</p><p>“Shit, sorr—” Clint began, but Peter was already in his lap. The bar stool tilted as it absorbed his momentum, <em> shit, shit, shit, </em> and then he caught them from hitting the floor with one hand, cradling Clint's head with the other (because a concussion was <em> not </em> conducive to sexy times, Peter knew that one all too well), and Clint was whispering, “oh my <em> god </em> that’s hot.”</p><p>“That’s enough feelings talk, right?” Peter asked — because feelings sucked, and making out while lying on a hard floor and tangled up in a bar stool was <em>surprisingly awesome. </em></p><p>“We should — we should, god, yes, you should keep doing that.” Clint gasped as Peter nipped down his neck. “This is weird, right?”</p><p>“Super weird. Do you want me to stop?”</p><p>Clint shook his head. “Want you to kiss me again.” Peter did, thoroughly. Clint pushed up on his elbows. “Is this a bad idea? In my head this looks bad.”</p><p>“The absolute worst.”</p><p>“One of us should stop this.”</p><p>“I’ve been a cat for the last four days, I am not great at impulse control right now.”</p><p>“Spidey, we should…”</p><p>“Go back to bed?”</p><p>“Yup. Yup, that’s what we should do.”</p><p>Turned out that kissing Clint on the floor was pretty great, but climbing him so hard they were gonna have to call the fire department was even better.</p><p>
  
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Happy Endings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which boots are knocked and Peter takes it all off.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In case you missed it, chapter 6 was posted on Saturday 😘<br/>(and if you wanna skip the sexy bits, you can scroll down to the next scene divider for the epilogue!)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>Peter wasn’t sure they would have actually made it off that floor if he’d been in charge of things.</p><p>Luckily, Clint heard ‘bed’ and before Peter knew it he was being carried (carried!) up the stairs to the loft, and tossed<em> (literally tossed) </em>onto the rumpled sheets. Clint crawled up Peter’s body, boxing him in with those magnificent arms and slamming their mouths together in a sloppy, open kiss. Peter writhed against him like a cat in heat. Clint’s broad hands stroked and pawed at him like they wanted to feel all of him all at the same time, inside and out, but he keened. He needed <em> more.</em> </p><p>“What do you want?” Clint’s voice was muffled as he bit at Peter’s jaw, as he nipped wetly up his cheek. “What do you like?” </p><p>“Clothes,” gasped Peter, “way less of them. And my mouth on your cock. <em> Soon. </em>Or I’m gonna fucking cry.”</p><p>Clint groaned. “Don’t be a tease.” </p><p>He shoved at Peter’s hoodie until Peter was hopelessly tangled in it. As Peter struggled to extricate himself — holy moly, how the fuck had Clint managed to get him so knotted up with just one movement? — Clint pushed Peter’s sweats down just far enough to wrap his mouth around the head of his cock and suck, <em> hard. </em>Peter yowled, arching and twisting until he yanked his way free of the fabric. Clint sat back and whipped his own tank off, narrowly avoiding punching himself in the face.</p><p>And…</p><p>
  <em> Abs. </em>
</p><p>Peter drooled. They had been good as a kitten, but they were even better as a real boy, with real human hands, and a real human — well. Point was, he wanted to get his mouth on them as quickly as was super-humanly possible, please and thank you.</p><p>“Don’t tease about the cocksucking, or about the crying?” he asked, pushing Clint onto his back and aggressively helping him the rest of the way out of his sweats, while his mouth enthusiastically helped itself to the long diagonal of muscle where Clint’s stomach met his hip. “I’ve been told I’m real pretty when I do either. Or both…”</p><p>Clint sucked in a breath. “Both? Both is good.”</p><p>Peter grinned, and if his face was even half as exuberant as he felt, it probably looked more goofy than sexy, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care because he was coming face-to-face with Clint’s absolutely incredible cock. He wrapped his hand around it and, oh my <em> god, </em> his fingers barely met. This thing needed to be in him <em>yesterday. </em> Well, okay, not <em>yesterday</em>-yesterday, because he’d still been a cat, but that was beside the point. Right now, he had more substantial things on his mind.</p><p>“Hello there,” he whispered to it. “We meet again.”</p><p>“That’s weird,” whined Clint. “I don’t want to think about a kitten looking at my dick.” Peter gave his very best wide kitten eyes, and slowly tilted his head. “No! Bad!” Clint protested, but his cock pulsed in Peter’s hand.</p><p>“Maybe you need a spray bottle,” Peter crooned, because he was The Very Best at dirty talk. Hopefully the lack of blood currently in Clint’s brain would forgive a few awkward lines. He licked his lips, gave the shaft a little nuzzle, nibbled the loose skin bunched at the top with gentle teeth, then — hmm. Clint propped himself up, making a questioning sound. Peter winced. “How do I… I’ve never, with the… and the…”</p><p>“You’ve never… but you just said… oh! Oh, yeah, it’s no big deal.” </p><p>Peter was pretty sure Clint’s cock <em> was </em> a big deal, a very big deal, but he didn’t feel inclined to argue as Clint pushed his foreskin down to reveal the slick, flushed head. </p><p>“Just, uh, get that guy out of the way for you. You’ve really never been with an uncut guy?” Peter’s brain kinda fuzzed out as Clint’s big hand wrapped tight around his, using Peter to give himself a firm stroke. Shit, he just wanted to let Clint use him to jerk off all day long, but he had a <em> plan. </em></p><p>After a few exploratory kitten licks, he sucked the head into his mouth, humming happily around his mouthful (or, in this case, more than a mouthful). He flicked his tongue along the frenulum and Clint yelped, pushing at Peter’s shoulders.</p><p>“Careful! That’s… <em> fuck </em> … that’s really se-en-si-tive.” Clint’s voice drew out in a whine as Peter held him down and undulated his tongue, a little more gently. Just a tiny bit. Well. Not much more gently at all, maybe. Clint was <em> sensitive. </em> His fingers itched with an abrupt desire to bat it around. Clint writhed. </p><p>Peter took a deep breath in through his nose, then sunk down as far as he could. Clint gave a strangled shout as the tip of his cock hit Peter’s uvula and kept right on going and, <em> oh shit, </em>Peter wasn’t even close to taking it all when his throat spasmed and he pulled back, coughing.</p><p>He peered coyly through damp eyelashes, rasped out, “What was that about crying?” and then he dove back onto Clint’s cock, sputtering on it like it was his job. Peter Parker was a lot of things, but he wasn't a quitter. If he decided he was gonna swallow Clint Barton’s cock like it was his last meal, it was gonna happen. </p><p>“Fuck, you’re so good at that, <em> shit, </em> you don’t have to — ” Clint’s fingers tangled in his hair, half-heartedly trying to pull him off. Peter reached up to grip Clint’s hand, pulling it down to brush against his throat. Clint obligingly skimmed his fingers down Peter’s windpipe, then swore and tightened them. “I can… I can feel it in your throat, <em> fuck.” </em></p><p>Peter gagged, skin and flesh and fragile cartilage pressed between strong, rough fingers and hot, heavy cock. He pushed through it, took just a little more, gagged again, and then his stomach clenched in warning and he pulled up. Thick spit stretched from his swollen lips, glistening and hypnotic. Peter watched it drizzle around the soft, pink tip as he collected himself. </p><p>It looked lonely. It needed a hug. A hug with Peter’s mouth. </p><p>Clint’s hand came up in vague protest, and Peter glared. “I’m gonna get this entire thing inside my body if it’s the last thing I do.”</p><p>He shifted forward a bit, readjusting his plan of attack. Another deep breath and then it was slipping in, hot and velvety on his tongue; still inexorably wide at the back of his mouth, but with the new angle he could take it better, take it deeper. Peter absolutely loved wrapping his throat around a good dick, loved the bone-deep satisfaction of using his own body to make someone else’s body feel good. Clint’s desperate whimpers filled Peter’s ears and it made him want to try even harder, to make Clint feel even better, and on the wave of that want his throat finally loosened that last little bit and he swallowed Clint all the way down.</p><p>The second his goal was achieved Peter went lax, mind quiet. He’d done it. He stilled, Clint’s cock held in his mouth, luxuriating in the feel of it pressing hard in a place that other people’s bodies weren’t really supposed to press. The only thing to worry about was being warm, being pleasing, and he was going to do that just as long as his lungs let him.</p><p>The room was almost silent, the lull broken only by Clint’s harsh breaths filling the space.</p><p>His fingers were reverent as they danced across Peter’s throat, cautiously tracing the line of his own cock. Peter wanted to tell him he could be a little firmer, a little meaner. He’d never had someone jerk off <em> through </em> his throat but wow, it sure did seem like a good idea right now. The best idea. </p><p>He might be getting a little dizzy. </p><p>He might not be thinking straight. </p><p>Clint hauled him up by the hair, and his cock slid electric against every sensitive nook and cranny in Peter’s throat on its way out. Before Peter knew it, he was bundled up into Clint’s lap and Clint was surging up into a (frankly unfair) crunch, kissing him until he was breathless for a whole different reason. </p><p>“So sweet for me, so fucking good at taking my cock…” and yup, Peter was back among the land of the living as he gasped out,</p><p>“Lube. Lube, right fucking now.”</p><p>Clint swore, twisting to lean over the side of the bed with his hips still caught between Peter’s thighs. He grimaced. “Can you give me a little space, honey?” Peter crossed his arms and glared, shifting to stay on top as Clint rotated and scooted underneath him. No move, only fuck. Clint glared back. “Fucking <em>cats.”</em></p><p>He resurfaced, clutching a dented bottle of lube with a peeling label. Peter swatted it out of his hands, squeezed out a dollop, and tossed it carelessly back on Clint’s chest. The look on Clint's face was pretty priceless, but not nearly as good as the way his chest hitched as he watched Peter reach behind himself. Impatient, Peter skipped the preliminaries and slid a finger right in. Gentle foreplay was for people who weren’t five minutes late for an urgent dick appointment. He rocked back, relaxing over the course of a few thrusts, before adding a second finger. “Fuck,” he whimpered, curling forward. “Oh my god, your cock’s going to feel so good in me, <em> please…” </em></p><p>And then Clint’s strong hands were wrapping around his arms, gently guiding him off of his lap, and Peter whined at the injustice, hand maneuvering to keep scissoring himself open as he was deposited on his belly. Clint loomed over him, draping heavy across Peter’s shoulder blades, one leg slung over Peter’s thighs to keep him pinned into the mattress. He reached down and pulled at Peter’s wrist, drawing his reluctant fingers out. Peter whimpered sadly.</p><p>Clint shushed him. “Settle down, kitten. Can’t let you have all the fun, can I?” And then all concepts of ‘fairness’ and ‘conscious thought’ became mere abstracts as two strong, calloused fingers pushed in, slow but unrelenting. Two of Peter’s fingers and two of Clint’s fingers were <em> very </em>different creatures. Not even on the same level. Not even in the same cinematic universe. Peter writhed under Clint’s weight, mewling. </p><p>He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Clint’s magic fingers stilled. Clint kissed his ear, murmured, “You okay, honey?” and yeah, okay, Peter could see how ‘ceasing to breathe’ could be misconstrued as ‘lack of enthusiasm,’ so he pushed his hips back onto Clint’s fingers with an embarrassingly high moan and a breathy, <em>‘please?’  </em>Clint laughed and pressed in just the right spot. That fucking <em> aim. </em> There was <em> so much </em> no one had told him about archers.</p><p>Clint was patient, thrusting slowly, working Peter’s body like opening up for him was the only thing it was made to do. It wasn’t long before Peter was thrusting back, moaning desperately while Clint kissed and nipped at his neck.</p><p>“God, your shoulders,” Clint hummed. </p><p>Wait, what? Peter sputtered. “No, <em> your </em> shoulders!” Hawkeye didn’t go around in his sleeveless vests and his tight tees, just… <em> complimenting Spider-Man’s shoulders. </em> </p><p>“Uh, no, yours,” said Clint, definitively, and then wrapped his teeth around what felt like Peter’s entire deltoid and bit,<em> hard, </em> and Peter couldn’t find it in himself to argue. He screamed, the bright, glorious burn almost managing to distract him from Clint’s third finger joining the party. Almost. Clint’s fingers were a lot of things, but they were not subtle. Fuck, Peter had <em> definitely </em>had dicks in him that were smaller than Clint’s three fingers.</p><p>Clint released his teeth, and Peter relaxed into the mattress in a dizzy rush. He blinked. The indigo sheets under his clenching hands were in tatters. Oops. He blinked again as Clint lifted him up, <em>aw, human weighted blanket, come back, </em> but Clint was just wrapping his free arm around Peter’s neck before settling heavy back on top of him and yes, this, this was very nice.</p><p>“I’m thinking you might like this, darlin’. Yeah?”</p><p>Peter nodded frantically, pushing his throat into the chokehold, but it stayed disappointingly roomy. He whined, pushing harder. Clint chuckled behind him, curling the fingers inside Peter just to make him yelp. “I like it. I like it! I’d like it a lot more if you, <em> oh, fuck, ohfuck, </em>did something with it!” And then Clint —   </p><p>
  <em>flexed.</em>
</p><p>Clint flexed his bicep, and Peter was pretty sure he attained enlightenment. He gurgled into the sudden pressure to his windpipe, the squeeze on the thick arteries that supplied his brain, and then Clint fucked into him hard and fast and merciless. He set his teeth against the back of Peter’s neck, held him firm and pulsed the muscle, flex and release, keeping Peter right on the edge of graying out until Peter realized in a detached sort of way that his face was wet with tears.</p><p>Clint licked a hot, sloppy line up his cheek.</p><p>You can’t… you can’t just <em> lick the tears </em> off someone’s <em> face. </em> That’s <em> cheating. </em></p><p>Clint was winning at sex, and he was fucking cheating to do it.</p><p>Oblivious to his own unsportsmanlike behavior, Clint sat back, pressed a hand between Peter’s shoulder blades, and casually flexed his fingers. <em> All </em> of them. Peter wheezed. <em> Cheating. </em>“You still want my cock, babe?” and all Peter could do was nod, boneless, shivering from tip to toe as Clint pulled his fingers out. “You just stay there,” Clint said, and that seemed like a great idea but also… </p><p>Springing out of nowhere to press Clint down on the bed and sit on his cock <em> also </em>seemed like a great idea. Even as the thought was occurring to him his muscles were obeying, coiling and releasing and flipping them until Clint’s back hit the mattress with an <em>‘oof,’ </em>Peter’s hand pressed to his chest.</p><p>“Fuck, okay, that works too,” Clint gasped. Peter grinned, showing all his teeth. He reached back to wrap his fingers around Clint’s erection, shuddering at the wide, unyielding press against his eager hole, and then —   </p><p>“Condom!” shouted Clint, hands scrabbling on Peter’s hips. “We should use a condom.”</p><p>Peter sat up a bit, pouting. “We don’t need one. I’m on PrEP. Also I got a healing factor.”</p><p>Clint eyed him. “Darlin’, you’re a stray I literally found in a dumpster. I’m wrapping it up.”</p><p>Peter arched his back and rubbed against Clint, the slick slide across worked-up nerves making him purr. Clint’s head hit the wall with a <em> thunk.</em></p><p>“Please?” Peter whined. “It’s not a big deal.” Clint thrust up against him, and the head just barely caught, and — </p><p>And then Clint shoved him, hard, and he went ass-over-teakettle, sprawling out on the bed with an offended murr and a poof of his shoulders. Clint shot him a glare in return, rummaging over the side of the bed for a foil packet.</p><p>“I do not appreciate having to be the adult,” he grumbled, settling back against the wall and rolling the condom on. Even the XL squeezed a painful looking ring around the base. Peter said a small prayer for that poor, abused organ and resolved to petition for its freedom at the earliest opportunity; in the meantime, it was the least he could do to provide some sweet conjugal comfort in its time of captivity.</p><p>He scrambled back up into Clint’s lap, pressed their foreheads together as he lined up and, oh fuck, <em> oh fuck, </em>this was gonna be challenge mode.</p><p>He keened into Clint’s gasping mouth as he pressed down, stretching open around Clint through sheer force of will (and also of force).  He took his time, worked that dick in slow — both because each and every inch felt <em>amazing, </em>and because his internal organs needed a little bit of a breather to finish rearranging themselves. </p><p>Clint’s chest hitched. “We don’t have to… <em> fuck </em>… I know it’s a lot, we can — ”</p><p>“Clint,” Peter gasped. “Why don’t you want me to have nice things?”  </p><p>“Anything,” Clint breathed. “I’ll give you anything you want.”</p><p>“Can I move in?” </p><p>“What??” squeaked Clint, and wheezed very unattractively. Peter was in love.</p><p>“Pleaaaase?” he begged, the lazy roll of his hips echoing the sentiment. “I like you, and I like your apartment, and I like that sunny spot by your window.”</p><p>“You just want me for my sunspot,” groaned Clint. Peter nuzzled sweetly at his neck, grinding in gentle circles. Clint twisted under him, finally biting out, “Fine! Yes, you can move — nngh.” Peter gave a little bounce of joy. Clint squeezed his hips hard enough to leave bruises. </p><p>Peter rode that dick like it was his job, and it wasn’t long before his abs clenched and his thrusts went jerky. It was just so damn <em> good. </em> He was right on the edge of it, he needed, he <em> needed , </em>and Clint gave. His big hands were everywhere on Peter’s body. Skimming up and down his spine, teasing at the groove of his abs. Wrapping bruisingly around his arms to push him down and yank him back up, dragging across his chest, rough thumbs brushing his nipples. Finally, those magical hands settled. One wrapped halfway around his neck, squeezing gently; the other braced him by a hip, slowing him to a stop and then —  </p><p>Fuck, fuck, oh <em> fuck, </em> Clint fucked up into him, <em> hard, </em>and the angle shifted, and Peter yowled, teeth rattling from the force of it, trying to writhe away but unable to escape the pistoning cock driving him out of his skin.</p><p>“Touch yourself,” growled Clint. “That’s it, kitten, get yourself off for me.” Peter fumbled for his own cock, clumsy, but the brush of his fingers slick over the head was electric, pleasure zinging right down his cock and straight through the center of him until it connected to Clint’s unforgiving thrusts against his prostate.</p><p>With a wail he came, climax blooming hot and sudden through his belly, arching into Clint as he spilled up both their chests in a filthy splatter.</p><p>Clint’s hand tightened around his throat, and he just… didn’t… stop… and that meant that Peter couldn’t stop either, couldn’t stop coming, couldn’t stop his body convulsing, couldn’t do anything but surrender to the desperate pleasure ringing through him.</p><p>“There you go,” murmured Clint, and then he was drawing Peter in against his shoulder and wrapping a hand around the back of his head, pressing him in close. He rasped out, “You better hold on, darlin’” and then Peter sobbed and Clint fucked up into him till he saw sparks behind his closed eyelids.</p><p>Clint shouted when he came, muffling it into Peter’s shoulder with his teeth, and Peter clutched weakly at him, shuddering, cock twitching in sympathy with the swelling flutter that pulsed against his clenched muscles from the inside. Clint held Peter like something fragile, mouthing a wet apology to the teeth marks he’d inscribed into Peter’s skin. His broad hands were soothing as they meandered up and down Peter’s sweaty back and combed through his hair. He held Peter like he was something worth being careful of.</p><p>There was a heavy, tangled thing that sat in Peter’s chest. Something that had always been there, as far back as he could remember; something that wound tighter and tighter, every minute of every single day.</p><p>It started to unspool.  </p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They took their time finding their way to horizontal. Peter sprawled half on top of Clint, sticky and boneless (and, just maybe, purring a teeny, tiny bit). Clint’s monster of a cock rested now, the well-deserved sleep of a job well done. Clint, too, dozed, indulgent as Peter fiddled with his new Favorite Cock in the World, playing with the foreskin, poking at it just so to watch it roll back into the crease of Clint’s thigh. </p><p>He had to admit: there was something to be said for the slow, easy life.</p><p>After a bit, Clint cracked an eye. “Were you serious about wanting to move in?”</p><p>Peter froze. </p><p>Clint didn’t look mad. His eyes were soft and heavy, and the hand stroking the back of Peter's neck kept a gentle, steady rhythm. </p><p>Peter let himself relax incrementally, melting back into Clint in tiny, suspicious dollops. </p><p>“I was.” His voice was small. “I would really, really like that. And I know that’s probably the bad idea to end all bad ideas, but… yes. Yes, I want to move in with you.”</p><p>Clint nodded to himself. “You’re gonna find out pretty damn quick that bad ideas are my specialty. For better or for worse.” His fingers massaged idly across Peter’s shoulder blade. “Uh, speaking of. Don’t wanna pry, but what name are we gonna be adding to the mailbox?”</p><p>Peter had to blink a few times before  it dawned on him. Shit. He hadn’t actually told Clint his <em> name. </em>He pressed his face against Clint’s gloriously sculpted pec and laughed himself stupid.</p><p>This was a terrible idea. It was gonna be a complete disaster, and it would definitely end in tears.</p><p>He couldn’t fucking wait.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Two months later</em>
</p><p>Peter took it all back.</p><p>This had been a terrible idea. It was a disaster beyond repair, and all he could do now was try desperately not to cry.</p><p>At least he'd picked a nice day for his world to end. The hallway in Avengers Tower was as bright and airy as always. Light streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, highlighting the swoopy modern art and placid beige walls; it was a design choice by one Pepper Potts, tailored to soothe even the most adrenaline-soaked, combat-charged alpha male.</p><p>In blatant disregard to her efforts, Peter was having kittens as he padded back and forth outside the meeting room.</p><p>He nearly hit the ceiling when a hand wrapped around his elbow, only to melt into a purr as he recognized Clint’s warm solid bulk at his back. Clint wrapped his arms around Peter, holding him tight, dropping a white paper cup of coffee into Peter’s trembling hand.</p><p>His breath was hot as he nuzzled against Peter’s neck, even through the thick material of the suit. “It’s okay if you’re not ready yet.”</p><p>Peter nodded. “I am ready. I’m just… I’m nervous.”</p><p>“I know. It’s okay, kitten. You got this.”</p><p>With one last squeeze, Clint stepped back to a respectful<em> (platonic) </em>distance. </p><p>The doors to the debrief room slid open.</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>“Um. H-hello. Hi, everyone.”</p><p>Spider-Man wasn't generally short on words. In fact, if you asked most people, Spider-Man always had too <em> many </em>words. A real warehouse outlet full of them, all the words that should neither be said nor collected by anyone — but Spidey? He had a coupon and a dream. (It was coupon for a vast, vast number of words, and a dream of using them on any and every occasion.)</p><p>But not today. Today, standing in front of the team, he was at a loss. His hands twisted at his sides, and Dr. Banner squirmed in nervous sympathy, eyeing the nearby door.</p><p>Hawkeye gave an encouraging nod from his casual lean in the back corner, mouthing something silently. Spidey shot back a shaky thumbs-up. Black Widow scrutinized them from her own corner, the ghost of a speculation flitting across her face.</p><p>“Uh, it’s me. Um. Spider-Man. Sorry, that’s stupid, you know that. I just — I thought it was… it’s past time. We’ve been working a lot more closely these last couple of months. You’ve all really taken me under your wing. You’re my team, and I trust you with my life, and so it’s time to trust you with my… life. With my identity.”</p><p>A <em> clang </em> rang out as Iron Man dropped the wrench he’d been idly tossing, and Thor, eyes sparking with interest, finally surfaced from behind his copy of <em> Teen Vogue.</em></p><p>Leaning forward in his seat, Captain America made excruciatingly sincere eye contact, holding it until Spidey’s right lens twitched. “You know you don’t have anything to prove to us, Spider-Man. You’re a part of this team, and we don’t need to know your name to know you have our backs.”</p><p>Spider-Man’s nodded, jaw set. “I know, but… I want to.” </p><p>His fingers were visibly shaking as they slipped under the mask. For a long, tense moment, he stilled.</p><p>Then, with a deep breath, he pulled it off.</p><p>Underneath was just… a guy. Brown hair, brown eyes. Great jaw, nice enough face. <em> Young. </em>Really young, just a pup, barely grown into his bones. But underneath the nerves and the puppydog eyes, he held himself with the assurance of a seasoned hero.</p><p>“Um. So. Hi, everyone. I… already said that. Anyway. My name is Peter Parker, and I was bitten by a radioactive spider when I was fifteen years old. And I’ve been Spider-Man ever since.”</p><p>The room was silent.</p><p>Finally, Stark cleared his throat, his eyes suspiciously shiny. “Nice to meet you, Peter.”</p><p>“Well met, son of Parker!” beamed Thor. “I must admit, calling you ‘son of dash, Man’ did feel a bit awkward, but I did not want to question your customs.”</p><p>“Wait a sec…” Hawkeye stepped forward. Spider-Man jumped. <em> “Wait </em>a sec. Parker.”</p><p>“Yes?” gulped the Parker in question. “You… you knew this, Clint.”</p><p><em> Clint?  </em>Cap and Widow exchanged a sharp glance.</p><p>Hawkeye's voice was flat. “P. Parker. From the Bugle.”</p><p>“I mean…” Spidey cut his eyes to the side. “I contract, or whatever. It’s not… I haven’t in a while.”</p><p>“No, but you took that photo — ”</p><p>Widow straightened with a gasp. “Hawkeye with Dogs.”</p><p>“Hawkeye with Dogs?” demanded Stark. “You took that?”</p><p>“Um,” said Spidey. He ducked his head, trying for contrite, but the corner of his mouth couldn’t help but pull up in a smirk. “Yeah, uh, sorry about that. I forgot all about it, honestly. But you gotta admit, it was kinda funny.” </p><p>“No, man, you don’t understand.” Hawkeye was pulling out a creased scrap of newspaper from the front pocket of his tac vest. He spread it flat on the table, fingers reverent as they smoothed out the worn newsprint. </p><p>The scene was Central Park, and Hawkeye, coffee in hand, was tangled in an absolute cluster-fuck of dogs and dog leashes (as well as a single contemptuous ferret). He was halfway through falling on his ass, his coffee cutting a glorious arc across the sky as three different dog walkers watched in horror from the sidelines. The headline read: <em> AVENGERS: GONE TO THE DOGS? </em></p><p>In the bottom right corner was a tiny caption: <em> Photo: P. Parker. </em></p><p>“I keep it over my heart, see? For luck. Man, I gotta have like 20 copies of that paper. Everyone got one for me.”</p><p>Spidey leaned over, tentatively thumbing at the caption. “Wow, dude, you’re uh. You’re making this really gay.” </p><p>Stark choked a laugh into his coffee, then proceeded to just choke. Spidey quickly cleared his throat.</p><p>“I, uh, probably have the file? If you want a bigger print?”</p><p>Hawkeye’s eyes went wide. “Really?”</p><p>“Yeah, we — I mean, <em> you, </em> you could, I don’t know, put it over the TV or something.”</p><p>“Wait,” Stark interrupted. “We have a two year bet running on this. Was it a drone?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“A drone,” said the Widow. “How’d you get the picture?”</p><p>“Oh, uh, I climbed a tree? I was kind of following him along through the park, honestly, tree to tree. Jameson wanted some Avengers shots that were ‘spicy,’ and I wasn’t gonna go and made it look like one of you was cheating or something, so I figured I’d just get Hawkeye, like, yelling at a hot dog vendor or something.” He winced. “Sorry.”</p><p>Hawkeye was grinning like the cat that got the cream. “Sorry? You just won me like two hundred bucks. Everyone said it had to be a drone, but I said it was someone in a tree. I <em> knew </em>it. Pay up, nerds.”</p><p>“Well. Good. I’m glad you’re not mad.”</p><p>“Guess you’re my lucky charm.” Hawkeye’s eyes twinkled, and Spider-Man ducked his head. Banner rubbed the bridge of his nose with a pained wheeze, and even Thor caught wise to that one, his face lighting up as he opened his mouth. </p><p>“Well!” Cap cut Thor off before he could let the cat out of the bag on the elephant that everyone <em> (now) </em> knew was in the room. “Now that that’s settled, we should get this meeting started. I’ve got the latest developments on the Kree situation on Spartax to pass along from Carol, and Natasha has new intel from her undercover work with the Russian drug cartel working out of Queens. Before we get into it: Spider-Man . <em>Peter.</em> Thank you. This means a lot, to all of us.”</p><p>His perfect blue eyes were earnest enough to melt hidden Nazi gold through the steel walls of a Swiss bank vault. He was giving Spider-Man <em> the look. </em> The look that meant he was definitely going to corner Spidey later and guilt-trip the ever-living fuck out of him. Everyone knew <em> the look. </em></p><p>Spider-Man’s shoulders crept slowly up to his ears.</p><p>Natasha tipped her head. She could have sworn… </p><p>Had that been… a hiss?</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p> </p><p>“ ‘m proud of you, kitten.”</p><p>Eyes half-closed, Clint was the picture of bliss as he sprawled across the cushiest couch by the sunniest window in the empty Avengers common room. Peter looked up from his notes, leaning up to nudge his bare cheek lightly against Clint’s shoulder before fleeing quickly back to his corner of the couch. He sighed.</p><p>“Everyone knows we’re dating, don’t they.”</p><p>Clint huffed a laugh. “Oh, yeah. Everyone knows.”</p><p>“Guess it was bound to happen.” Peter wrinkled his nose, but his toes wiggled happily under Clint’s leg. “Does Hawkeye need help with the Draculas tonight?” </p><p>“Naw. It's just a few of 'em. She tagged in America, and Nat's gonna sneak them in the back door. She called it Ladies Night; said we should keep half an ear out, but if we showed up to meddle she'd punch us both.”</p><p>They shuddered in unison, Peter rubbing at the memory of a bruise on his arm. He yawned. “Maybe I'll patrol a little later, then. That way I'm out and about if she needs back up, but I won't be in their way.” </p><p>“Solid plan. I could come with?”</p><p>“I don’t think so, mister. No off-the-record, unofficial, definitely-not-Avengers-affiliated vigilantism for you until that wrist heals up.” </p><p>Clint examined his wrapped-up wrist mournfully. “Could have been a lot worse, though?”</p><p>“Guess I really am your lucky charm,” teased Peter, ducking to avoid a half-hearted smack.</p><p>“I’m never gonna live that down,” Clint said, flopping back into the couch and throwing an arm over his eyes. He was grinning, though. The setting sun fell across his face in a golden glow and Peter’s laughter faded, melting into a softer smile, something small and private. The moment stretched, thick and warm.</p><p>Then Peter's brow furrowed and he jolted up, swatting at Clint’s arm.</p><p>“Wait a sec. You had that picture… the picture that I took of you… the picture that you carry with you everywhere you go, for luck… You had that on you every time you yelled at me in that room??”</p><p>“Uhhhhh…”</p><p>“I’m taking it back. Luck revoked. Fortune withdrawn. Good vibes rescinded.”</p><p>“You can’t do that.”</p><p>Peter crossed his arms with a glare. “You’re in the doghouse, buster. You’re sleeping on the couch.”</p><p>“Yeah, we both know that’s not gonna happen. You got eight little spider-toes that’ll get cold without me to warm ‘em up.” Peter blinked, his expression deeply pained. “Wait. Not eight. Um. Eighty? No…”</p><p>Peter snorted, tipping up to cut Clint off with a messy, giggly kiss. After a long moment he pulled back, glancing guiltily over his shoulder for signs of their teammates. He unfolded from the couch, taking Clint’s hand in his.</p><p>“Can we go home?”</p><p>“Yeah, trash cat,” Clint said, and smiled until his eyes crinkled. “Yeah, we can.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This was not at all what I planned to do with my summer. Originally a kitten of a one-shot, it swiftly grew into a big, beautiful lion. I'm not even a tiny bit sorry that it did. I'm blown away that so many of you came along on this strange, fluffy little journey with me. You may notice this has become a series! I don't have anything big planned for the future [insert joke about Clint's dick, huehuehue], but there are a few little oneshots pattering around my brain (including one for PolyShip Bingo this month! 👀👀👀).</p><p>Thanks for all the comments and the kudos--each and every one of them brightened my day and kept me pushing forward even when the world outside was scary and all I wanted to do was curl up in Clint's big, purple bed.</p><p>Extra bonus super thanks to my betas. If you've been skimming past the closing notes, take one last peek. They're all fantastic writers, and if you liked this work, I bet they wrote something you'll absolutely love &lt;3</p><p>Stay safe, and I hope your future is full of love, kitten kisses, and all the unfairly attractive biceps you can fit in your mouth 💜🏹😻</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tell your friends! Tell your enemies! <a href="https://waterme-stories.tumblr.com/post/629292653510590464/frisky-business-complete-fic">Share this thing on Tumblr!</a></p><p><strong>Please, give my beta army some love!</strong> This story would absolutely not exist without these fabulous humans, both for the initial inspiration, and for the kick in the ass every time I get stuck.<br/></p><ul>
<li>
<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vashoth">Vashoth</a>'s <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22842874/chapters/54594886">"One Part Anscombe, Three Parts Diogenes"</a> heard you like Spideypool identity porn, so it put some identity porn in your identity porn. Strap in for an absolutely hilarious, plot-heavy romp.<br/>
</li>
<li>
<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnGoose/pseuds/AnGoose">AnGoose</a> is my enthusiastic and enabling co-Captain on this <del>ship</del> leaky-ass raft of rarepairs. <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24736468/chapters/59799241">"Storm Clouds Large and Small"</a> is the Frank Castle/Peter Parker that nobody asked for but everyone needs. [CW: high school/underage Spidey]<br/>
</li>
<li>
<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Y_ellow/">Y_ellow</a> writes an amazing variety of ridiculously sweet, hot-as-hell kink, and is also on this careening rarepairs train with the sweetest, sexiest, realist Wade/Weasel you will <em>ever</em> read. Yes, really. Go give <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071397">"there’s a whisper in my bones (keeping me restless)" </a> a shot. You can thank me later.</li>
<li>
<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwenpools_Aesthetic/pseuds/Gwenpools_Aesthetic">Gwenpools_Aesthetic</a> wrote the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22101730/chapters/52748017">best Team Red poly triad in the entire universe,</a> and, well, can you tell that I jive well with folks who write rarepairs? Because <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26192377/chapters/63738280">
"The Place You Need To Reach"</a> is a zany space road trip songfic featuring Matt Murdock/Peter Quill, and I don't know how I existed in a world without it.</li>

<strong>Attn. Spideypool Fans:</strong> <a href="https://spideypoolbigbang.tumblr.com/post/628053785244303360/spbb-2020-artist-sign-ups">Artist Sign-ups for Spideypool Big Bang 2020 are open,</a> now until October 4th! I'm writing! I'm arting! And so should you! If you don't wanna participate in the event you should still hop into the <a href="https://discord.com/invite/CyX5Dgy">"Isn't It Bromantic" Discord</a> to scream about rarepairs with me <strike>into the void</strike> in the multishipping room.

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<em>All graphics are my design, using CC0 stock from </em><span class="small"></span><em><a href="https://pixabay.com/">Pixabay</a> and promotional celebrity + movie images.</em><br/>
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